Another Kind of Tranquility
by Medivi
Summary: After a year of what amounts to indentured servitude, Sinead and Bethany Hawke have repaid their debts. One last assignment, what could possibly go wrong? Incl. snapshots between Act I and Act II. DA2 spoilers. Hawke, First Person Perspective
1. Chapter 1

_Authors Note: I wanted to explore an alternate means that Anders and Sinead* Hawke (Sarcastic Rogue) may have met. Not sure if I want to continue in this format, but it was clamoring to be written. I reserve the right to mix up the timing of events to enable a story flow, rather than a game-style one. Breaking this up into a few short chapters. DA 2 spoilers likely.  
_

_*Sinead - Pronounced Shi-Nade  
_

* * *

**Another kind of tranquility, Part 1**

They say when you stare Death in the face, your life flashes before your eyes.

My flirtation with Death began early in life, before I was more than a troublesome adolescent with a penchant for mischief. Oh the scrapes we got into! The pranks! The adventures! I fear the twins spent many an undeserved night facing parental wrath due to my influence. Father's knack for healing kept me hale and whole despite myself, considering my tomboy antics.

The time I convinced Bethany to freeze the watermill left me unable to sit for a week after the paddling. Who was I to know it would shatter the mechanism? Besides, Carver and I redistributed the miller's laundry from the clothesline to its venerable planks, and that certainly wouldn't have worked if it were _moving._

Even with my smarting bum, the three of us couldn't help but hide and wait for the discovery. We laughed until we cried. The Miller's son wasn't the only one to try more than ogling the vagrant's daughter. Had it been me, I'd just plant a fist in their face and be done with it. Rearranging noses had gotten to be a habit my parents despaired of breaking me. Bethany, however, had to be careful and so often bore such overtures quietly.

Thus, there was the trick with the water wheel. It was something to give Bethany a chance to _get back_ for a change. Once it unfroze there was nothing to suggest arcane influence. Of course, anything untoward and folk start to mutter about local demonic influence_. Demonic Influence._ Really? What demon dabbles in smallclothes?

* * *

Maybe there is something to the reflections that flood your mind when death begins a slow, inexorable courtship dance. _Maker, it's hard to think right now. _Bethany… she's leaning over me, speaking, but it's hard to make out the words through the rushing in my ears. My mind is sluggish and beneath this fog my body aches and trembles. This weakness is angering! Bethany is fearful, her lips are trembling, though she's trying to hide it. I suppose all control went towards harnessing the magic she bore, she never could manage to hide her thoughts...

There is little pain, though this seems… wrong. I'm… forgetting something. My mind floats, watching like a distant observer as arms and hands and faces surround me, lifting me, hauling me to Maker knows where. Everything is cold, so cold.

* * *

_Carver._ Mother leans over his still form, and I feel Death's cold presence surrounding me, raising the individual hairs on my skin. There is no time to feel anything just now as the beast of his destruction turns towards me, its beady eyes narrowing and the steam of its breath visible in the cold air. The picture is emblazoned on my mind, stark, dangerous as a blade's edge and cutting as deep. The wound has been struck, and the scar will not fade.

The Ogre lowers its head and charges, the horns of its helmet passing through the space I had stood so briefly just moments before. Knives flash. I tumble, flipping in and out among the creatures that swarm. The heat of darkspawn blood stings my skin, and everything blurs into a flash of sharpened metal meeting darkened flesh. The warrior woman, _Aveline_, huddles behind her shield, the long, flickering sweep of her sword gathering the attention of our enemies until I explode behind them, striking them down one by one. The great beast throws its arms back, howling, and I see my opening. Darting, leaping, clambering up its side I bury my knife at the base of its throat then fling myself free of its deadly flailings.

Just as quickly, there is nothing left to fight. The ground is littered with bodies, but the only one my eyes desperately seek is Carver's. Now, finally, the grief rises, the fear chokes my throat. My 'little' brother lies crumpled on the ground, too small for the tall, lanky frame of memory.

Aveline, voice gentle, speaks as mother weeps. "I'm sorry mistress. Your son is gone." The warrior woman bows her golden head briefly, her husband lifting his one good hand to give the Maker's blessing. Strange, how a Templar would willingly give comfort to such as us, the family of an apostate.

Even such a brief pause, and the Darkspawn are upon us again. A cry of warning expells from my lips. "We have company!" Anger drives my limbs, and I purge myself of grief and powerlessness with every stroke. There are others here, alive, I cannot fail them too. A shadow falls over us, and as the flames streak down from above to sear the darkspawn, hope and terror intertwine.

A dragon lands, its form shrinking and tightening in on itself, revealing the striking figure of a woman. A venerable weight of years hangs about her, but in my dazed state all I can think of is, _Maker, I'd kill to age like that._ Mother would have been appalled at my irreverence, at such a time, after all that has happened. I keep the thought to myself.

We'll blame it on shock.

"Well, well, what have we here?" The rumbling, deep tones of the figure set us all back a pace. "It used to be we never got visitors to the Wilds. But now it seems they arrive in hordes!"

"I don't know what you are, but I won't let you harm us." My words are light, almost amused, as if I can reassure my companions by facing down this new unknown. My daggers are still in my hands, lowered, yet ready to lift in an instant. Perspiration dampens my palms, and I shift my grip, but the moment of danger passes as the strange figure chuckles. We are nothing more than a powerful creature's amusement.

Yet Death passes me by again. Is it a deal with the devil, when I exchange passage from these darkspawn infested Wilds? The favor is small, a simple delivery, but this is no being to be trifled with. What could possibly balance the scale tipped by our lives? She is Flemeth, Witch of the Wilds, and there is a gleam of satisfaction in her eye as she grants us our boon.

_I failed you father. _As the ground disappears beneath us, not even the sensation of flying, or the rough leather of dragon scales can distract me from the dear life forever lost to me. _I could not save him._

* * *

"_Carver…"_ Awareness is jarring, the walls flashing by me are unfamiliar, and I hear Bethany and the familiar hitch between her breaths as she gnaws on a lip.

"Hurry, please, you're sure it's this way…?" her words are lost as something thuds. It is a door, slamming open. _Careless, foolish girl!_ We're never to draw attention to ourselves. Has she forgotten? The air changes, charged, like the time when Bethany lost her temper and singed off my eyebrow. I struggle to speak, but my lips are stubborn. _Control yourself, Bethany!_ But… it is not Bethany.

"I have made this place a sanctum of healing and salvation," strident male tones call out, measured, contained, but full of power that snaps and burns at the air, leaving a scent like lightning. "Who are you to threaten it?"

The hands on me shift, uncertainly, and I only realize they carry weapons as their abrupt stillness stifles the clatter of blades and sheathes rattling against armor. No one speaks, but it is Bethany, quiet, shy Bethany, whose tremulous voice emerges, shaking but insistent.

"My sister, sir," the despair in her voice drives me, the sensation in the air dimming the fog in my mind, and I struggle for words as she continues. "We were… we weren't expecting… the Templars, one was… and she…." The air stills. I gasp as the hands shuffle me, sliding a hard surface beneath me. Or is it the other way around? Sensation and pain flood my chest, but the rest of me is cold, numb. Perhaps the fog was better after all.

"Bethy," The word is harder to form than I remember. She shouldn't worry. I just need rest. Everything is always better in the morning, barring a late night in the tavern and a few rounds too many with the crew. "It's… just a flesh wound… let me sleep…." Irritation wells within me, such a commotion, such a fuss being made. When she doesn't protest the name, I wonder if I'm reasoning something wrong, but the fog is overwhelming my senses. Lucidity is beginning to fade again, and for once, the darkness seems welcoming...

* * *

It is finally here! After a year of indentured servitude, our debt will finally be repaid. Father was always our conscience, and I can't help but feel his disapproval every time we sacrifice our ideals and honor for some backstreet deal. These smugglers have a sense of honor all their own, but it often leaves a bad taste in my mouth. I hope, if Father is watching, he knows how hard I tried to honor what he taught us. Morals ill fit this undercity world, and while I see respect in the eyes of those around me, I see as much wariness. My ways are not their ways. It is well that we will part.

I've never worked so blatantly outside the law before. Well, unless you count traipsing across Fereldan with my family, smuggling our two apostates from place to place.

Alright, and there _was_ that incident with the Teyrn's Mabari. But really, what was I supposed to do? Leave him chained up? It's not exactly stealing if he followed me home of his own free volition.

Fine, so the pastries Carver and I filched from the kitchens _may_ have had something to do with his sudden change of loyalty. But, is it really our fault if they didn't feed the poor beast properly? Father didn't seem to find our explanations particularly convincing, but when the Teyrn tracked his hound to our doorstep the beast refused to leave. Jinks, that blessed Mabari, guards mother now while Bethany and I honor our debt.

All that aside, there is to be no more slithering about dark alleys or exchanging coins in the shadows. That, at least, I know Father would approve of.

This next year will be different, I'll find honest work, take better care of Mother and Bethany. Get us away from Gamlen, his sour being and bad habits. My daydreams fragment into reality as Bethany stirs beside me, and I look up to see our contacts approaching with speed. My eyes narrow, trying to reason why my skin prickles with suspicion.

Athenril funded our entrance to the city, but she is still threatened by my uncanny knack for sensing mayhem. My fingers flicker with the signal that conveys my unease, but the bloody elf ignores me! My particular friends shift uneasily, and we exchange looks, loosening weapons in sheathes, alert for trouble.

The six of those struggling towards us stumble into the passageway, the ceiling and walls of Darktown, Kirkwall's sprawling undercity, flickering in the torchlight. Crates burden the arms of four of them, the two rear-most men eyeing the path behind them nervously, their swords bared.

"Hurry," Their leader, another elf, all sharp angles and joints, sets his crate down and shoves it in Athenril's direction as she stands to greet him, graceful and fluid as only an elf can be. Payment must wait, however, until she assures the goods. Before she can pry off the lid, however, the clink of heavy armor begins to echo down the passage, and one of those holding a crate starts, dropping it with a resounding thud and the tinkle of crackling glass. A pale liquid oozes from the corners, catching the light and reflecting it back in such a way that it appears to shimmer.

_Lyrium._

Andraste's Ashes be damned. This is not what I signed up for.

"We've been made, skip along like good children, now!" I care little for Athenril's good will as we scatter, my reputation enough that my warning needs no second urging. Yet, my words come too late as a cluster of Templars emerge from the far side of the room, lining into formation before charging forwards. I turn, reaching for Bethany, only to find our alternate flight path blocked by a similar row of symmetrical helmets.

There is no time to think before swords clash, and the clamor echoes strangely in the close confines. My knives whirl in my hands, deadly blurs seeking to exploit the Templars weaknesses and directed by instinct as much as conscious thought. Desperation and familiarity with the terrain give us the advantage, the cramped space limiting the Templars' movements as they are swarmed. Each death is a regret for tomorrow, but for now, all I think of is _making_ it to tomorrow.

Bethany cries out behind me, and my knife goes awry, the blade skittering down the back of my target's armor. The Templar whirls, lashing out, and my armor, already scratched, scuffed and beaten, parts slightly as the tip catches me near the gut. Spinning underneath his arm as the blade passes by, I shove my knife up into his armpit and twist, disabling him. My blade catches on a bone, slipping from my grip as he staggers backwards.

There is no time to lament the loss as I turn, seeking my sister, but there is a Templar betwixt us. His arm is raised for the killing blow! The fractured wood in her hands spits futilely, irreparably shattered. My blood boils within me and I charge, stooping to grasp a long blade discarded on the ground. The next moment, that very blade buries itself into his neck. Spinning, the Templar takes a retaliatory swipe, then collapses. Pressing a hand to my chest, the force of the blow sends me staggering backwards.

"_Shinae?_" At least Bethany is safe, so to speak, though her face is pale as she stares at me. Adrenaline is fading, and with it, my ability to ignore the pain flooding my body. _Maker._

The rush of noise fades from my ears, and I realize the sounds of battle have ceased. The Templar had the right idea…_ I just… need to lay down…._

"_Hawke!_" Hands seize me, but the darkness is already closing in.

They say when you stare Death in the face, your life flashes before your eyes…

* * *

_Part two will be appearing shortly!_


	2. Chapter 2

_AN: It's been astounding to see the page count rise on this one. I would love some feedback on whether the style is jiving for you or not, as I'm debating whether to switch over to a new story with the same characters/concept, but based more on a 3rd person narrative. Thankyou for the Story/Author/Favorite adds, it has been a great encouragement._

* * *

**Another kind of tranquility, Part 2**

Blue. Everything is blue. It is a light filtering harshly through my eyelids. It is a chill seeping into every pore. Blood flames hotly in my veins and it sears me from within, tracing all the little pathways in my body. _I breath lightning._

These sensations overwhelm me, but it is neither pain nor pleasure, just _intensity_. Perception returns suddenly, and my body arches, jolted against a cold rough surface before collapsing backwards. My skin prickles as this strange energy subsides slightly, leaving invisible threads pulling and interlacing within my flesh.

Abruptly, darkness returns, but it is now a living, breathing thing, full of murmurs and the sudden cry of a child, quickly hushed. There is a light touch at my temple, and a hand settles on either side of my face, exerting a gentle physical pressure on either side of my forehead. A forgotten ache eases, and a long, slow sigh escapes from my lips. My eyes open to find an unfamiliar amber gaze a mere handspan away. He's no angel of the Maker, however, with haphazardly pulled back locks the short facial scruff darkening his jawline. It is a solemn moment, made more so by the force of will it is taking to gather my scattered thoughts. Memory and reality intertwine, but finally I latch onto this moment, this place, and this man I'd never seen before in my life.

My awareness seems to please this stranger, his face easing from concern, though a few worry lines linger about his pursed lips. Apparently more is expected of me than merely the opening of my eyes. So I do what I do best. _Mouth, meet foot._

"There are certainly better ways to get a woman flat on her back." My throat is unbelievably dry, and the words emerge in low rusty tones. Bemusement twitches at the healer's lips as he releases my head, staggering backwards a step, obviously drained by the powers so recently wielded.

"_Sinead!"_ Relief and embarrassment strangle Bethany's exclamation.

"Like I said," My tone is conciliatory as I attempt to soothe her, taking on the mantle of protector once more. As my palms spread flat against the table and push myself upwards, I flash a grin that wobbles as my stomach muscles contract. "Just a little flesh wou…" It is somehow hard to finish the sentence when I see the tatters of leather barely covering my midriff and chest. If not for the mess of dried blood and bits of muck sheathing my skin, I'd be displaying an embarrassing amount of skin. Drying blood is crusting on pale and _already healing_ scars that criss-cross my previously unblemished belly. I swallow hard, sobering for a full second as I carefully swing my legs down. _Not just concussed then._

Father's lectures on the limits of magic, and the limits of power a single mage could wield, whip through my mind. The Maker knows, I've had my fair share of healing, and nothing has ever been so… intense. _Dare I ask… _On second thought, maybe it's better to count my blessings and not think about the why too much.

Bethany tackles me with more relief than compassion. "Ooof." The breath whooshes from my lungs. _Maker._ I'm going to be _sore_ tomorrow.

"Go easy," The warning comes from behind me, but is directed at my sister, who freezes and slowly releases me as if I might shatter in her arms. Had I been that fragile, it would have been too little, too late! Her face is a study of worry, and I wrinkle my nose at her until the ghost of a smile flits across her face. _I'm not made of glass, silly. _He continues, "Such injuries will require time and rest to prevent more harm and replenish the blood she's lost."

I glance back over my shoulder. The healer is sagging against a squat column, fingers pressing at his temple. Bethany does this when she overextends herself, but I have never seen her recover as he does. Some hidden reservoir is tapped and he slowly straightens, rolling his neck slightly on his squared shoulders and rubbing a hand along the back of his neck. I suddenly wonder what his assistance will cost us, fighting between regret and wariness. No one gives something for nothing.

"Is this the part where I sign over my firstborn child? Offer my life in servitude? Give you the family dog?" My tone fights to maintain an airy amusement and general irreverence, trying to hide my own uncertainty, but perhaps my face betrays me. His eyes meet mine briefly, and I turn away, gaze fixing on my sister. She hadn't considered payment and her face is pale with this new realization. Suddenly ashamed of myself, I reach out a hand to gently grab hers with a reassuring squeeze. _We've still got each other. That's what matters._

"I'm more of a cat person, myself," he responds with gracious amusement as he moves around the table to stand on our side, then shakes his head. "My only request is for secrecy from those who seek to silence me and my work. I cannot do much, but I would alleviate the injustices here in what ways I can.

Now," The healer continues, and there is no time to move as one of his palms open, sweeping in a slow vertical sweep in front of me without, quite, touching. A roiling ball of energy swells between his hand and me, an orb of pure magic. The prickling begins again, along with that disturbing sensation of invisible threads slipping in and out of my skin. A burst of energy seems to flow through my veins, sending a shiver from my tailbone all the way up my spine. "This should enable you some time to return to some place safe, but it is only temporary."

"I…" This kindness, the casual dismissal of any debt, it is so unexpected that I find myself staring at him, speechless.

His eyes flicker between my sister and myself as he continues, misunderstanding my unfinished expression. "You do have somewhere to go? Free mages and Templars are a dangerous mixture." His eyes are on Bethany, perhaps his own magical nature sensing the enchantments woven into her robe, but it is clear he has put one and one together and arrived correctly at two.

"Lowtown, my uncle's. The… attack was a moment of opportunity, I think, nothing more." Bethany pipes up, and then eyes me askance as the man's face darkens briefly. There are strange blue flickers in the depths of his eyes. Is this a remnant of the healing magic?

"They are getting bolder every day," he mutters, jaw clenching.

"Somewhere for me to clean up before we go, perhaps?" The healer's amber eyes flicker downwards briefly from my eyes to my somewhat bare torso, and there is an impression that he's seeing me for the first time as a woman and not the jumble of filleted flesh that landed on his worktable.

Crossing my arms does not help much, and while the pertinent bits and pieces are covered, there is so little left to the imagination that Bethany's face is flaming.

"Ah yes…" Distracted from his earlier comments, the brief flare of anger fades beneath the faintest heightened color and he immediately turns and waves at someone elsewhere in the room. There is something a little fun about flustering a man, even if it is unintentional. I take the moment to study his profile, realizing that it is weariness, and not years, that make him seem so much older. My observations are cut short as a woman, gray hair tied neatly back in a bun, appears beside him, looking at us expectantly. "Marjorie, this is…" He turns to us with a questioning air.

"Sinead, and my sister Bethany." I supply the required information,

"Sinead needs something to replace her, uh, tunic. A little soap might not be amiss either. Would you see to it?" Marjorie helps me up, and though I feel a little light-headed, my somewhat tentative movements are painless.

"And you, our feathered knight, are…?" Bethany is rolling her eyes at me. Now that the danger has passed, her fears are quickly becoming overwhelmed with exasperation._ That's better_.

For the record, all I'm going to say is that men who don't want to be teased, shouldn't wear feathered pauldrons, or short feathered little capes, or whatever the thing is covering his shoulders. This idea goes along with the saying about throwing rocks at glass houses. There are just certain things you bloody well don't mix.

"Anders." He bows slightly, with a quiet laugh, his golden head dipping in my direction in a courtly fashion. When he straightens, there is a disquieting sense that he sees through my irreverence to the disquiet I am trying to push aside, and I follow Marjorie with alacrity.

* * *

There is a partially shielded corner, complete with a bowl of lukewarm water and blocked by panels made from old crates. I can glimpse the large room between the crate chinks, and spy Anders speaking intently with Bethany along the far wall. As he pulls a bottle from the shelf, he pauses briefly to speak, then pulls another down. _More fussing. Bah._

Marjorie leaves me alone with a tiny rag and a sliver of soap. Shivering out of the leather chestpiece, I hold it up in front of me. Blood and muck aside, I groan softly as I finger the long gaping slashes and try to imagine a means of patching it back together. Allowing it to fall to the ground, I reach for the water and soap. The air is chill, and there are goosebumps rising along my damp skin as I scrub and slough the disgusting mess away. It takes two more of the bowls of water before I'm presentable. Standing, I cannot help but look down at the pale expanse of my skin and the pale red weals that cross it. Part of me knows they will fade with time. I trace a finger along the longest, running the tip beneath one breast in a crossways slash that approaches my opposite hip. _Bragging scars, is all._ Disfigurement and a renewed sense of mortality are hard to laugh away, however, even for me.

It is only then, as I pull the rough woolen tunic over my head and begin to tuck it under my belt, that I realize only empty sheathes rattle at my hips. _Wonderful._

I emerge from the private little corner, to find Bethany leaning against a wall, a small bundle under one arm, and her eyes fixed on a point across the room. There is a doe-eyed expression on her face that leaves me instantly wary, especially when she starts and flushes at my approach. It takes no Blood Mage to read the thoughts written so blatantly across her features.

_A fellow apostate, saves her sister's life, refuses payment, expresses concern over her safety… _I sigh, eyeing the healer, Anders. He appears intent on another patient, his hands spreading over the leg of a young boy whose painful writhing stills as a glowing blue light descends from the healer's hands. _Certainly not painful to look at._ My protective instincts are aroused, but at the moment, there is only one thing I am absolutely sure of.

_I need a drink._

"Let's go." It is not until we've reached the main streets, having carefully navigated the gloomy passageways that give Darktown its name, that I realize I never once said thank you.

Bethany is surprised when I pull her towards the Hanged Man, rather than home, once we reach the quieter streets of Lowtown.

"But Anders said…"

I have a premonition this will not be the last time she utters those words.

"What is Mother going to ask when we get home, Bethy?" I grip her elbow tightly, forcing her to turn back to look at me, and I see a slowly dawning comprehension in her brown eyes.

So it is that we stumble home after an hour tucked into the taproom corner, reeking of cheap beer. Mother seemed more disappointed we had not invited her to celebrate with us, much to my surprise. I'll gladly bear that disappointment if it will spare her more tears.


	3. Chapter 3

AN: Thanks to Sharis and Feretta for your reviews! With the continuing adds, I will be expanding this vision/style on beyond the first two parts that inspired it. We'll see how it goes! Please continue to Review – the compliments are as welcome as any criticisms, as this is an exercise to help stretch my writing. With no Beta-Reader as yet, your input is even more valuable!

Beta-Reader Request: Anyone not afraid of DA2 spoilers interested in doing some beta-reading for me? I'm sure these could stand a little discerning eye. Send me a message and you'll be my new favorite person. I tend to over-write things, so I'm especially looking for someone willing to help me tighten my story up a bit.

**Act I: (Birthright) spoilers/references.  
**_(Quotes and paraphrases from DA2 all property of Bioware, etc. etc. The original bits are all my own.)_

* * *

**Inalienable Birthright, Part 1**

Waking up to a pounding head and an aching gut that first morning, I am quite content to drink the potion Bethany tries to drown me with and slip into the sweet oblivion of sleep. That evening, when she gently tries to prop me up from a half-asleep stupor, I waken enough to swipe it irritatedly from her hand before she dumps _it_ down my shirt or dumps _me_ out of bed.

"I'm just tired, Bethy, not a cripple!" She eyes me askance, and I clamp my lips around a groan of discomfort as I push myself upright under my own power, a thumb stoppering the potion carefully so it doesn't spill.

"That was your excuse last night, if you recall. Your life's blood dripping everywhere and your body in tatters... you'll have to forgive me if I seem a _bit_ skeptical." This is a new side to my sweet little sister, and I find myself chafing under the role reversal as she strives to set her petite little foot down. I suppose it isn't the size that matters, just the emphasis. "Besides," She continues, "Anders says..."

I don't want to hear, for the umpteenth time today, what the blasted healer said and quickly down the potion. Elfroot isn't supposed to make one sleepy, is it? Before I can puzzle out the answer, I am slipping comfortably into a dreamless darkness.

* * *

I awaken the next morning, feeling marginally better, and carefully creep out of the lower bunk I share with Bethany, listening to ensure the light snoring higher up continues unabated. The weak wood frame creaks faintly, but she doesn't even stir, and I quietly pad my way over to my chest. After digging through its contents for a few moments, a frown puckers at my lips. A quick study of our relatively empty room does not reveal what I hope to find.

"BETH-AN-Y!" The howl that erupts from is in direct relation to the unusual feeling of my intentions being foiled. What are twenty-two years of life and the staid maturity of adulthood when faced with a precocious sibling? Not that I've ever been described as 'staid'… come to think of it.

The bunk behind me strains and sighs as she jolts awake, yawning a sleepy "Huh?" in my direction, followed by "Wait, what are you doing up?"

"Where are my pants!" I stir the contents of the chest with one hand, as if prodding the disarray of garments and odds and ends will miraculously produce even a simple pair of leather leggings. Glancing up at her, I surprise a self-satisfied grin that she immediately tries to wipe away. "Why, you little...!"

"Anders said you were to rest for at least five days, or..." she makes no move to leave the sanctuary that the height of her bed provides, and I am in no shape to wrestle her down. Temper flaring, I direct a furious glare in her direction.

"Your lovely healer can bloody well go to the Maker for all I care. And you too." Perhaps I'd be less irritable if I felt less impotent; I do not take defeat well. Besides. there are things to do, and lazing about Gamlen's little hovel is not going to get us out of here any sooner.

"Love you too, sis." With a grin, blithely unafraid, she digs around and pulls a garment from the slip covering her pillow. Dangling it from the waistband, out of my reach, she offers a truce. "Promise not to leave the house, or I'll have to get mother to repair the seams of your pants. Have you noticed? The seat is nearly worn out. Tsk, Tsk… sister… you're so hard on your clothing." She's enjoying this, eyes dancing merrily, and I can't help a laugh at an impudence directed at me instead of originating from me. _She's certainly _my_ sister!_

"Oh! Not fair." Wincing and laughing, I wrap my arms about my midsection for support, the muscles spasming, and just as suddenly my anger dissipates. Dear Bethany, she's already lost Carver, and I rather suspect this impudence is as much true fear for me as much as a chance to get the upper hand for once.

While I may no longer be angry, that doesn't mean I have to accept defeat graciously. No battle is worth winning unless hard fought. Bethany extracts a promise, then proceeds to pick it apart to allow me no loopholes.

"Very well!" I fling up my arms in defeat as she finally clambers down to my level. "I promise not to leave the house without someone else for at least four days and keep my excursions no farther than the market. And no, Jinks doesn't count. And no, I'm not allowed to drive Gamlen so batty he kicks me out the door." The longsuffering sigh that escapes me does not faze her a whit. "Happy?" She pecks me wordlessly on the cheek, pleased and briefly child-like in her relief as she joins mother for breakfast. As the door closes behind her, I carefully check the seat of my pants just to ensure she has taken no preemptive measures. One can never be too careful….

* * *

Keeping to the house is not as easy as I expected, or perhaps my guilty conscience wouldn't have agreed to little Bethy's terms quite so quickly.

Gamlen is grousing _continuously_. He grouses at the small amount of food I choke down, though it is less than usual. He grouses at the cramped space with five bodies clustered in his house and snaps at Jinks anytime the Mabari shifts an inch. My faithful, patient dog ends up curled on and around my feet (no mean feat for an animal twice my mass) after the most recent tongue lashing. Jinks has been hovering within arms reach since Bethany brought me home, perhaps sensing something awry and determined to keep me under his watchful gaze. The best method, of course, is to prevent me from moving.

Mother says little most of that first morning after and I guiltily reflect that between work and sleep, we've spent little time with her, leaving her to bear the brunt of Gamlen's bitter selfishness alone. There is so little we share in common, she and I. Words she would have found amusing from father's lips, she often finds irritating from mine. Perhaps it is merely that I take after him, more than Bethy and Carver ever did. Every so often this past year mother would break off in the middle of our already few conversations, briefly captivated by a look or expression on my face.

"You certainly have Malcolm's eyes..." became as common as "his nose... his chin...". Derailed, our conversation would inevitably lapse into silence. The blight has changed her. No longer is she the strong, fearless woman of my childhood who kissed away my bruises and braved the world's troubles. I suppose it is my turn to be strong, to be fearless, to hold Mother and Bethany and pretend confidence in the haphazard plans of my devising.

_Maker take me._ I pull myself out of these sobering reflections with a jolt. _A little dance with death and I grow positively _maudlin_._

While Bethany clears the spare leavings of lunch, I try to chivvy mother into stories of her childhood. My curiousity is piqued as she reminisces about the rich and lavish lifestyle of her younger years.

"I know the Amells were nobility, Mother, but not much else..." Bethany sighs over the descriptions of balls and fancy dresses this produces, while I prod mother for stories of our grandparents. Gamlen abruptly stands after a few moments of this, muttering something unintelligible with tones that could cut glass, and stomps out the door. There is a perceptible air of relief that accompanies his departure, as if a cloud has finally freed the sun from a gloomy gray prison.

"Why did you never talk about them… before?" She sighs at mt question, eyes drifting wistfully to the corner Gamlen had so recently vacated as if that is answer enough.

"The Amells have been… were… a noble family of Kirkwall, and have been since Garahel drove out the Fourth blight. I was the disappointment..." Her soft gentle voice finally emerges, but she is focusing on the fabric on her lap and the needle in her hands, the sharp point weaving swiftly through the dark green fabric. Mother is always the lady, even dressed in homespun, and somehow, sitting beside her daintier frame, I feel all knees and elbows in comparison. "But we've always carried magic in our blood. No family of truly good standing would ever marry into a line with such a stain on our lineage. When I chose your father... I was bringing more magic into our line, not less. I… always somehow felt their life would always be closed to me."

"Is there truly nothing we can do to reclaim the status your family once held?" My question lingers in the air as Bethany sidles up to us, listening intently as she slips onto a stool. It is a question somewhat more prudent than tactful. Mother's hands pause, her eyes cast down. The silence is answer enough, and it's all the answer I receive.

None of us speak of the weight descending on our minds. While under Athenril's employ, Bethany enjoyed a certain protection… a protection we can no longer rely on.

Bethany breaks the impasse by peering over at the half-forgotten work on mother's lap. Mother forces a smile, handing me the rich green fabric, and promptly instructing me to hold it underneath my chin so she can eye the color more critically.

"I've been saving this, but it's almost done." She begins, a trifle over-brightly. "We may be poor, but there's no reason we must _look_ destitute. Perhaps, when you're out looking for work, this will give you a little more respectability?" She eyes my chin-length hair with a certain resignation. "It brings out your eyes..." Dear mother. I know she means well. _And it's the thought that counts, right?_ While I enjoy pretty things as much as the next girl, delicately embroidered vines and lilies are not the sort of the things that would inspire confidence in… my kind of clientele… the kind that are interested in the sharpness of your blade and the steel in your spine. At least she has Bethany, who is holding up a similar_ (already finished_, I note with wry amusement) garment in blue. The two of them are chittering away suddenly, and I find myself briefly adrift and out of place holding the green, girlish bit of frippery.

* * *

"My children have been in servitude, servitude! For a year!" Mother's voice is raised, and I can hear it clearly through the closed door of our room. "They should be nobility!" The upper bunk creaks, and I hear Bethany sigh in the early morning gloom. Scrambling out of bed is easier this morning, not only because I'm free of my promise to Bethany and a little to eager to get _out_. While I carefully check the seat of my pants before drawing them on, it is but a few seconds until I am opening the door on our little family _tete-a-tete_, Bethany peering over my shoulder.

"If wishes were poppy, we'd all be dreaming." Gamlen's voice is sharp, almost taunting, and it piques my temper.

"You mean, this is real? No wonder I can't wake up." I yawn lazily, but the teeth I grit in Uncle's direction bely the amusement I try to instill in my voice.

"And here I thought that Fereldan you ran off with was a mage, not a jester." The disdain he feels for our father carries an affront to each of us. _Fereldan. Mage. Jester._ "Your mother was supposed to marry the Comte de Launcet. Instead, she ran off with some Fereldan _apostate_! You don't get to stay the favorite when you do that." Presenting a united front, Bethany and I move protectively to either side of our mother, who seems to garner a sudden strength from our presence, lifting her chin and pushing onwards resolutely.

"Where is father's will? If I could just see for myself…" I reflect on our conversation, my first day recovering, and wonder at mother's sudden persistence. _Maybe she didn't just dismiss my thoughts, after all._

"It's not here, all right? It was read. It went into the vault. No one needed to look at it again." His gaze shies away from directly meeting my eyes as he bellows his response. The twitch in his feet seem to suggest a quick retreat is in the making. Bethany and I exchange a glance over mother's head, and I see my flaring suspicions reflected in her usually gentle face.

"Well now, _that_ touched a nerve." Sarcasm lashes from my lips. "What's in there that you don't want us to see?" Gamlen and I are much of a height, and the step I take towards him sends him back a few paces of his own. Mother's touch on my arm is both warning and comfort.

"Nothing! But you won't be seeing the bloody thing. It's still locked up in the vault on the estate. _That's_ long out of my hands." There is a moment of disbelieving silence.

"You... didn't take your parents will?" Bethany's amazement sends our Uncle slowly pacing back towards the front door, the sour frown lines in his face deepening as he deflects the question.

"It was old news! You think I've been sitting here for _twenty-five years_ waiting for Leandra to slink back?"

"Who bought the estate, Gamlen? Perhaps I could..." Mother's apologetic appeal falls on deaf ears as he lashes out with the final piece of his diatribe.

"No one you know. Get used to Lowtown, Sister. _That's_ where we're going to stay." The door slams closed behind him.

"Well... then..." Angry words die on my lips as I think... _very carefully_... about what Gamlen _didn't_ say. Laughing suddenly, I spin on my heel to sweep a ridiculously low bow to Bethany, who stares at me as if I've finally unhinged. _Perhaps she's right, at that._ "It seems, My Lady Bethany Hawke, you'll be needing my services. I specialize in subversion, sneaking and.. uh.. will filching. As for showing up Uncles, that service comes free of charge!"

Mother gives me one of _those_ looks, the look that sees Malcolm, my father, in all his irreverent glory instead of me, the red-haired, green-eyed feminine copy. For the first time in memory, however, a slow smile blossoms in response.

There is a chain dangling about her neck, a slender, elegant little thing that slips innocently beneath her bodice. It is this chain she pulls free, dangling it out from her neck to display a plain, worn gold ring and a small, strangely shaped key. Bethany's sudden laugh of recognition echoes mine, and she claps her hands briefly as if she is five years old again. _Father's ring... and __the Amell estate key. _The sentimental token spent many an evening toyed by our childish hands as we listened to our parents embellish the story of their elopement. The tale always began with mother sneaking away through the secret passageway in the Estate Cellar.

Three Hawke women against the oppressive Kirkwall, starting with Uncle Gamlen? I'm starting to like our odds.

* * *

_P.S. Now if only I can get the characters to behave in Part 2... I'm on my 3rd rewrite at the moment. :P I swear I write three times as much as ever actually sees the light of day.  
_


	4. Chapter 4

**AN:** Thanks for the encouragement, it really is helping keep me motivated! Shout-out to my lovely reviewers: Shotgun_Infinity, Ioialoha, McNeko, Sphinxes, Wayside, EmbersofAmber, Zinala and fifespice!

Thanks to Cyanide Disaster for beta-reading this for me.

**Act I: (Birthright) spoilers/references.**

**

* * *

Inalienable Birthright, Part 2**

Will-filching, in theory, is a terribly exciting exercise in exacting justice for the downtrodden (namely we three Hawke women and one honorary Hawke dog) and triumphing against the lower than low status of Fereldan refugee. In practice, however, nothing ever quite is as easy as it seems. For starters, a city _changes_ in a quarter of a century… walls are built, roofs fall in, doorways are plastered over or knocked out, sewers are maintained, plugged, and blocked up. All in all, mother's directions are remarkably useless. After reconnoitering the following afternoon, Bethany and I return home covered in dust, dirt and discouragement, realizing that this will not be as easy as "breeze in, grab will, breeze out".

"Kirkwall wasn't freed in a day," I remind my fellow conspirators as we tuck in close around the fire, rubbing my hands together to slough off the chill creeping through the thin walls. "It will just take more time."

Fortunately or unfortunately, if the vault has not been despoiled _yet_, a few more days will likely make little difference.

"What we need, is to pump Gamlen for more information. Who the new owners are…" Bethany and Mother exchange doubtful looks and I cock my head at them in confusion. "What?"

"Sis, I don't think he'll respond to your kind of… mmm… pumping…" There is a tentative note to Bethany's voice, but she is gnawing her lip and trying not to laugh. While I don't appreciate being the butt of her joke, it is good to see her heightened spirits.

"We'll need to wheedle." Mother agrees quickly. I throw up my arms in mock defeat.

"Alright! Alright! Wheedle away and…" The door swings open, accompanied by the patter of uneven, drunken footsteps. Without a break, I continue. "Tomorrow I'll start looking for work, _scout around_ for some openings."

"Right! Maybe we could…" I shake my head at Bethany as she perks up, the words dying on her lips at my look.

"Bethy, until we have something lined up… it might be safer for you to stick close to home for a little while." Glancing at mother for support, I try to block out Gamlen's unintelligible muttering in the background as he drifts through the common area through to his room. That door slams open, rebounds into Gamlen's forehead _and_ slams closed on the muted swearing that follows. I sigh. "Just... keep mother company for a few days, work on Gamlen. If I have a good lead, I'll let you in on it, but it's best not to flaunt anything just now."

"She has a point, darling." Mother's voice is gentle. Bethany's lips part to argue, but I level an unblinking gaze at her. _Remember the Templars, just a few nights ago?_ Bethany withers under the words I do not speak. While I'm still a little weak, there is nothing clouding my wits now, and the last thing we need is Athenril's last little trick coming back to haunt us because of carelessness. Taking a page from my book, my little sister acquiesces ungraciously, storming off to sulk in her room about the unfairness of life.

* * *

The evening mist rolling up the streets from the harbor is thick with the scent of fish and the tang of salt. These pungent aromas tease my nostrils as I slip from shadow to cranny along the broad, relatively empty streets of Hightown. Even the wealthy cannot entirely escape lowtown's existence, as much as the sounds and sights of the city slums are masked. There are a few lights sparkling brightly forth from windows, casting the evening in a murky relief of shadows, light and a thinly spread fog.

Artistically fashioned nooks and crevices adorn the lovely, if somewhat pompous, homes that line the streets, greenery flowing sporadically from stoneworked boxes. All in all, it is an evening well-suited for surreptitious exercise, as subtle movements are lost in darkness or the already shifting leaves of shrubbery. Days of preparation and careful timing seem to be paying off.

Moments of speed are interlaced with long pauses as I seek to avoid notice of guards, casual passerby, and the occasional roving toughs. One of the latter is clinking by as I sidle into a quiet corner, the relatively neat armor and uniforms at odds with the varying kinds and styles of their boots and the blunt weapons that are decidedly not the standard guard equipment. Taking careful note, I study a few of the faces carefully from my shadowy vantage point, knowing Aveline will welcome the tip. She hadn't exactly given me permission to sneak a peek at the guard rotations when I'd swung by for a visit earlier this week, but I still feel the pull of obligation after using her in that way. After keeping a careful distance while under Athenril's leash, I cannot quite help the guilt that tinges my conscience.

Pushing aside the inconvenient thoughts, I refocus on the task at hand, wending my way uneventfully towards a particularly shadowy nook one manor over from the Amell Estate. Slithering up the wall takes but a few moments, shielded by darkness and the twitching leaves of greenery. A fingernail catches on a stone, tearing as I slip and sending an annoying agony in my fingertip. It's not debilitating, just a burning distraction when I need all my wits about me.

The race across the rooftop is a low mad dash, a race against slipping or dislodging the semi-loose tiles by forcing them to bear my weight overlong. By the time I slide up and over the railing to the second floor balcony on the old family estate I am breathing hard from the scramble. Detritus crinkles beneath the soft leather of my boots and my quiet pacing towards the double doors is accompanied by the slight trembling of my limbs from the intense sprint and climb. Crouching by the door, I press an ear against the wood paneling, listening, my eyes fastening on the dim glow emanating from the window.

Silence. Giving my arms a few minutes to recover, I finally pick out my tools, slipping them into the lock and feeling around for the tumblers. My eyes are half-lidded, the little bits of metal in my hands responsive extensions of my fingers. _Snick. Snick. Snick. Almost there... Phfft_. A subtle spasm from the earlier strain of the scramble shifts my fingers and the lock slips back into place. Inwardly, I growl, sitting back on my heels, stretching fingers, arms and wrists before shaking out my joints. Crouching forwards once again, I slide my tools back into the lock.

* * *

Once inside, it is quick work to skirt the hallways utilizing the servant entrances: doors cunningly adapted to lay flush against the walls, the seams disappearing into the woodwork, as it were. My breath is moist against the large gray handkerchief I've wrapped over nose and lips, granting a little anonymity. I am able to completely avoid the front foyer, where the slap of cards and jingle of coin mix with the quietly raucous comments of those watching the front door. Luckily for me, it appears the neighborhood is relatively quiet; their attention is lax. I maneuver my way down to the cellar slowly and carefully, but encounter no resistance.

The passageway is cool, the air still as I descend the steep steps. I hover at the opening, hesitating and eyeing a large room that does not match my mother's description. There is a quick impression of huge barrels along the wall to my right and barred enclosures to my left. My attention, however, becomes riveted on the body not five steps away, average build, sword at his hip, rough hands, the easy movement of someone with nothing to prove. A muffled voice is calling out from a room out of sight past the barrels, and the man is casting his own voice over his shoulder.

"Grab it yourself, you lazy blighter!" There is an irritated tenor to the man's snort of disgruntlement. I slide farther back into the passageway, releasing a small clasp at my toolbelt, the thick thumb-width rope sliding loosely into my two hands. As his foot hits the second step and his head is turning, I slide in to plant a forceful heel on his chest, the faint rustling of fabric all that is audible as his eyes startle upwards. Unbalanced, he staggers backwards, gasping, unable to catch his breath for a cry of warning. As quickly, I spring forward to fling the rope around his neck, snapping it taut against his vocal cords and crossing it tightly behind him, the muscles in my arms straining as we sidle in a strange parody of dance. There is movement within the enclosures, I catch this in my peripheral vision, but no noise sounds the alarm, no footstep approaches. The muffled voices from the other room continue droning, and time passes silently until the man I wrestle suddenly sags against me, limp and heavy with unconsciousness. Unprepared to catch his bulk, he slumps heavily to the ground, the sheathe clattering lightly as it skitters along the floor.

"Settle down in there, or I'll take the whip to you!" There is a growl from the other room, but apparently the warning suffices midst the continuing silence. The owner of the voice does not enter. Those in the roughshod cells, however, are standing and watching me with over-bright gazes, curious and wary. It is the young elven girl who catches my eye, her dark bruises purpling under opalescent skin, the only one of them marked. This cannot bode well for her, and she shrinks back behind the companion in her cell when she becomes aware of my notice.

_Hell no. I'm no bloody hero. Sneak in, get the will, sneak out... that was the estate is supposed to be a meeting place, operational… how the hell did they traffic the slaves?_ My eyes flicker to the huge wine barrels, perhaps just large enough to stuff a body in.

I stoop to rifle through the guard's clothing, lightening his purse, retrieving a key, unbuckling his belt to slide it and the sheathed sword free. The man is still breathing, but I'm only half-aware, my mind shuffling through my plan, making adjustments. I haul him over to a corner and tuck him between the wall and a barrel, pulling his hands behind his back and tightening the belt around them, giving him a sound blow behind the ear to keep him still and quiet.

_It'd serve the Bastards right._ Killing, I'd wanted to avoid; giving away my identity, likewise. Eating into their bottom line, however, would be priceless. They would assume the careless guard, or perhaps even a vigilante. The crux of the matter, I reason, is that if there is something actionable in the will, taking steps outside the law might defeat us before we can address the issue. Cautiously, I approach the clustered elves, two each shoved within four tiny cells, a wary silence emanating from all of them. A dark-haired man in the first cell, young and muscular, at least as elves go, gestures to the sword in my hand with a curious, hard look.

"Sers," I dip an amused bow in their direction with a quiet word in an attempt to lighten the mood. They watch me, emotionless, and I sigh quietly to myself. _No sense of humor_, I suppose it's their prerogative. "Perhaps I can interest you in a lovely jaunt through the sewers? If I can have but a moment of your discretion…" My voice is quietly jovial, and slightly muffled by the kerchief still masking the lower half of my face, the looted key winding between my fingers.

* * *

There are footsteps sloshing through the sludge of the sewers behind me. The elves are struggling to keep pace as we turn the corner from the hidden passageway that spilled us into the underground drainage below Hightown. The stench is nigh unbearable, and my fury is about the same. Well, what had I expected? An angry slave, a sharp pointy sword… _slavers apparently make good pincushions_. At least the will itself is safe, folded and tucked tightly within my tunic, close to my skin. A few other of what I assume to be small family baubles weight the pouch at my waist.

Before we are far, a shout erupts behind us and I curse, slipping to the back of the little group and motioning to the two elves with scavenged weaponry. _Didn't your mother ever tell you to close the door after yourself?_ Now is not the time for recriminations, however, as the first of several slavers breaks across me like a wave, crashing upon the flashing of my blades and sliding back in surprise at my resilience. These, at least, were expecting nothing more than slaves. _Speaking of…?_

I suddenly realize there is nothing but air at my back, and a disturbing prevalence of slavers encircling me. _Bloody…._

Before I'm overrun, I slam a little vial into the midst of my attackers, disorienting them with a sudden roiling smoke as I slip aside in the gloom. There is no time for regrets as I grab the arm of one attacker, pulling him close enough to smell the stench of alcohol on his breath before one of his compatriots impales him, a sword thrust meant for me and a gift I'll gladly pass along. Shoving the dead weight into his comrades and ducking away into the haze, I slam my daggers into the base of another's neck before taking off at a sprint, grimacing as I swipe the splatter of blood from my face. It is impossible to keep up my breakneck pace long, but I scramble as fast as the dim lighting allows, cringing inwardly when I must feel the walls for guidance and find a particularly moist and spongy surface. _It's moss, it's just moss._

Up ahead, there is a glint of flickering orange light that is creeping through a grate in the wall. I slide into it heavily, slamming my shoulder into the center and receiving a new bruise for my trouble. It doesn't budge and I push onwards. The voices are closer now, and I hear a grunt behind me that sends me weaving to one side, trying to avoid a projectile that suddenly wraps around my right foot, staggering me as I stumble forwards. _There, a ledge. _Shaking the clinging, ropelike strands off my foot, I heave myself up on the rising lip of the sewer channel, another dim glow revealing a possible exit just a few arms lengths ahead along the narrow ledge.

Sensing the movement of air behind my legs, I gather all my energy for a sudden wild sprint on the thin ledge running parallel to the sewer trough, propelling myself at the moderately sized opening in a full-fledged dive. My shoulders hit the upper rungs of a ladder, which, while breaking my fall, also leaves me sprawled in an inelegant, facedown heap several feet below. The dim but surprisingly familiar shades of a little corner of Darktown surrounds me, and while it teases at my mind, I have no time to assess the location beyond potential exits. A flickering lantern in this little dead-end reveals a little stairway just….

There is a searing pain as something grazes my leg, followed by the soft _thwuck_ of a dagger impaling itself in the ground.


	5. Chapter 5

**AN: **Please continue to review! Now I have to play around with how to bridge between this and the next scene (and decide who I want my Hawke to meet next...); Anyone know a place that gives DA2 prompts?

Thanks to my reviewers, CloudGazer15, fifespice, Jemina and Zinala!

Thanks also to my Beta-readers: Shotgun Infinity; Cyanide Disaster; SI especially helped me really fine tune this chapter (and helped me do battle with the run-on sentence boss.) It is much appreciated!

**Act I: Birthright spoilers**

* * *

**Inalienable Birthright, Part 3**

"_Sonnovabitch…!" _The curse strings together as I tuck my arms and fling myself in the opposite direction of the blade impaled in the earth, rolling to my feet with my daggers drawn and weight balanced forward on my toes. I can feel the blood drizzling from the graze to my calf, but the cut stings more than it hinders. Here, I have a momentary advantage, as the angered slavers can only squeeze out of the opening one at a time and each is hesitating over the drop. Quickly sheathing one knife, I grab a handful of gravel and dirt. As booted feet hit the ground, I fling my impromptu projectiles at the first slaver's face and dart in, blades at the ready. My assailant winces back instinctively, throwing an arm upwards to protect unshielded eyes. I note only belatedly she is a woman as my knife tip slips into the hollow below her left breast and the ill-fitting chest piece, sliding between two ribs for a quick end.

"Take the little bitch and we'll _work _our loss out of her." The authority and fury in this voice from above makes my stomach turn unpleasantly as I gather my second dagger, flipping my grip on the weapons and thrusting them behind me as I back into another attacker, my shoulder taking the impact of his swinging sword hilt while his gut takes the impact of my knife points. There is a brief resistance before they slide into his flesh, then the sword drops to the ground with a clatter; the man likewise.

Too late, I look up to see the burliest slaver launching himself out from the ledge directly at me, the last two of his remaining compatriots following closely behind as I throw myself backwards. The leader pushes forwards with momentum as soon as he lands on knees and toes, foregoing any weapon but bare knuckles. While I swing away from the first oncoming fist, I am not quite quick enough to duck the second that skims along my skull. It is a glancing blow, thank the Maker, but it disorients me, leaving my vision blurry as I stagger to one knee. My hesitation is just enough to allow his hands to find purchase in the kerchief on my face, dirty fingers twining in its folds. He yanks me forwards, the fabric cutting into the back of my neck before it parts with shearing of cloth.

As I stumble forwards, I make a desperate swipe which the more experienced brawler avoids easily, grabbing my wrist and bending it back until my grip fails. The blade falls, time slowing briefly as it tumbles through the air. While it is still mid-flight, searing balls of flame shoot past me, singeing my face with their intense heat and setting the man before me alight. My knife is skittering along the ground, and I dive after it. The burly slaver has more to worry about just now, releasing me as he flails and turns in an agonized arc to face this new threat.

_Enemy of my enemy… _the flesh around one of my eyes is swelling and narrowing my vision of the tableau before me. However, I'm not about to give these bastards any quarter now, especially with this new found ally at my back. Vigor renewed, I slide in behind the big brute, feeling a chill drift through the air, perceiving rather than seeing the ice encapsulating the other two. The flames have nearly done him in, the skin crisping even as the magic begins to fade, but I plant a dagger at the base of his neck for good measure. The weight of the blow sends him to his knees before he collapses at my feet. Spinning, I let loose a kick towards one of the men encased in ice, the force shattering his frozen flesh against the ground. Just like that, it is over.

The sudden silence is deafening but for the air I'm sucking in with all the grace of a smith's bellows. I lean forward slightly to catch my breath, holding my blades loosely as wrists settle on knees for support.

"You… have my gratitude…" I straighten, unable to stifle a light groan, carefully wiping my daggers on the nearest dead body prior to sheathing them. Bethany is never going to let me hear the end of this. _Well, Bethany doesn't _need _to know, does she? _"Make a habit of taking sides in random brawls?"

"Only when they occur on my doorstep." There is a wary undercurrent to the masculine tone as he follows this with, "Any of that blood yours?" While the voice is vaguely familiar, I cannot immediately place it. I sense a vague tingling along my flesh, the pale blue of a light magical haze encapsulating me briefly. Skin crawling, I shiver against the itching sensation of small wounds closing and the swelling of my face slowly subsiding.

"Not much." Glancing down at the mess that covers me, I grimace. "The drunken, inept sods..." I sniff experimentally, non-plussed. "I think half of what flowed through their veins was alcohol." Now that the rush of battle is fading, however, my stomach lurches. The death of Darkspawn never gave me qualms; if only I could feel so nonchalant about the human lives that seem to end up at my feet. _Life would be so much easier if I didn't care_.

Glancing up, it is something in his amber eyes that tugs at my memory, along with a sense of something missing. There is something of disarray in his dress, trousers stuffed loosely into black unlaced boots, his tunic hanging loosely about a tall, narrow frame. _Anders_. The name floats to the surface of my mind as I realize what is missing... those ridiculous pauldrons. There is a subtle haze about him, a faint blue sheen, but I blink and it is gone. Did I merely imagine it?

"Ah! The feathered knight with healing hands." Despite myself, I feel a tug at my lips. I always did have an inconvenient sense of humor. "But no feathers? Are you molting?"

"You know," There is a sudden amused recognition crawling across his features and a sense of mild exasperation in his tone as he replies. "I never realized one could acquire stray _people_ quite so easily as cats and other scavengers..." He sighs in mock amusement, running a hand through already disheveled hair, but there is a sharp look in his eyes that is uncomfortably assessing. "Heal you people once and it's a license for mayhem, hm?"

"Fond of strays, are we?" I arch an eyebrow in his direction, not deigning to justify his latter comment with a response. _Mayhem? Hm, indeed._

"Only the ones not inclined to scratch when petted." _Sinead, you have a dirty mind_. I bite a lip as I inwardly scold myself, trying to still the irreverent laugh the words threatened to conjure. _Still..._ Uncertain of his intentions, I let my left thumb hang casually on the hilt of my dagger. _Just so there's no question which category __**I**__ fall under_. He continues the idle chatter, and I'm left to wonder whether or not I am inserting innuendo where none exists. "All the cats around here remain feral out of self-preservation, I suppose. Get too friendly and they likely end up roasting over someone's fire." He sighs, dropping to his heels next to the brawler's body and pauses. Something has caught his eye and he flips one of the man's sleeves back, revealing a stark 'S' branded and stained black in the flesh. Whatever tension has been lingering in the air fades. I am not accountable to this healing man; I need not explain myself. Nonetheless, I imagine it is easier to understand the death of a slaver than some other random sod a woman like I may have angered.

"Yes, there is some justice in this." I barely catch the grim words, they are murmured so softly, but the look Anders turns towards me then is easier, even if strangely tinted with a pale glimmer. The light flickers strangely in here, casting a strange hue to the whites of his eyes. They're almost blue... His next words are bemused. "Templars, slavers... what next, the Qunari?" I shrug non-committally as he waves me at the man's other arm, sliding his own hands under the armpit on his side. "Lend me a hand?"

* * *

Anders' clinic is dim and quiet in the early pre-dawn stillness. The coals of a dimming fire glimmer in one corner, while strands of moonlight peter through a few high, partially boarded windows on the far wall. The healer himself is closing the door behind me, his doorstep once more a nondescript dead-end. Sensing my hesitation, one of his hands flickers towards a basin on one side as he walks in that direction, settling his hands on the pump. Water streams forth in short, even bursts, and without hesitation I plunge my head under the flow, running my hands through hair and across skin, emerging with a gasp as most of the blood and grit is sluiced away.

"_Maker, _that's cold." Despite this, there is relief in feeling _clean_, of shedding the taint of death from my skin. I glance down at my abused garments. _Well, clean__**er**__ anyhow._

"So," there is a cautious note to the words he speaks, despite the sudden yawn that splits his face. "Can we expect more of your 'friends'?" Cupping handfuls of water, I try to rinse the worst of the sewer muck from my leathers and boots. I glance up just in time to catch a rag flung in my direction as he leaves me to my ministrations.

"That should be all of them…" Pausing, I tilt my head, tallying the numbers, little rivulets of water dripping from the tips of my short, curling strands of hair, the drops slipping uncomfortably down my neck between skin and clothing. "I can account for all that followed us into the tunnels, and the fact we ended up here is purely coincidental. I would never have drawn anyone here intentionally."

"Us?" He eyes me, curiously. "You're the one with the sister... the mage?" _Poor Bethany, mooning over a man who barely recalls her existence. _I shake my head emphatically to correct his impression.

"Yes but no, she's not part of the 'us' I meant." I sigh, pulling a long face and pressing the heels of my hands into my temples. "I'm not entirely sure what law of the universe puts me constantly between opposing forces. Darkspawn and traitors in Ostagar, smugglers and templars the other night... Tonight I ran afoul of both slaves and slavers. Let's just say that good deeds never go unpuni… _oh hell!_" As the dampness from my ministrations seeps through my gear, I am overwhelmed by a sudden surge of panic as I recall the whole purpose of the night's enterprise. I writhe, twisting and shoving my hands up under my hardened leather chest-piece in what must surely appear a fit of madness.

"Caught a mouse in there, have we?" The Healer eyes me askance, then laughs at my expression as I extract the folded papers. They are unquestionably damp, but there are no tell-tale rings of washed out ink, at least that I can tell by the dim light. I sag against a nearby table with relief, holding the will away from me carefully so as not to wet it further.

"What?" My eyes lift to meet his forcefully, a little irked by his humor, and perhaps there is a sheepishly defiant air to my voice when his eyebrows lift in question. "It's important, and so's my skin. Preserving both are high on my list of priorities." I begin peeling the pages apart carefully, spreading them on the surface of the table.

"You know, you might reconsider your definition of _priority_, dear lady_._" While there is amusement flickering in his amber eyes as they trace the little rips and tears in my clothing, there is a touch of asperity in his tone. "If this is what you consider preserving that skin of yours I'd hate to see what you consider _reckless!_" Only partially listening, I continue peeling pages apart, my broken nails sliding gently between sheets that seem to want nothing more than to cling to each other. A light flares and I glance up, startled, aware of his presence next to me. His hands are pulling away from a newly lit lantern he sets down just above the line of papers as he tries to stifle another yawn. I pause suddenly, feeling sheepish.

"I'm sorry. Here I barge in on your sleep with my troubles and continue to keep you from..." He waves off the apology with a twist of his lips that is hard to decipher in the shadows cast by the flickering lantern.

"If not you, it would have been someone else, I'm sure." Dismissively, he runs his hands through the somewhat ragged strands of blond locks, tying half of it back in a haphazard little tail. One hand drifts curiously towards the last of the papers I laid out, but he hesitates. "May I?"

Shrugging permission, I finish parting the last two pages and take a moment to survey my handiwork. The decorative tracings around the margins bear a slight smudge here and there, but the yellowed fibers of the paper are intact and the meat of the document is clearly readable. There are nine pages in all, and I lift the first carefully, unable to restrain my own curiosity regarding Gamlen's questionable deflections every time the contents of these pages were brought up. I lean in over the table, canting the page towards the light, my eyes adjusting to a neat, even scrawl as I skim the legal wording for something I can understand.

_Hereby bequeath the estate in its entirety, contents and belongings as listed... Leandra Amell... _

"I _knew_ it! Lying, cheating, _Bastard!_" Anders sets down the paper in his hands, startled by the explosion of words after my long silence. I try and temper the fury sending a new flush of adrenaline through my system, but my hands are shaking. "That man couldn't say 'Good Morning' without lying... twice!" The paper twists slightly in my grip, and I carefully lay it back on the table before I do it damage, still seething.

"A story here, I take it?" I appreciate that he doesn't push for details, but I find the words spilling forth anyways.

"Our _Blighted _Uncle, Gamlen, my Mother's... brother. I've spent the last _year_ working off a debt he arranged... that was our only way into this bloody city... since he squandered the inheritance, and come to find it wasn't even his to squander. Maker _take_ him." Forcing a calming breath I take a few steps away from the table, pacing as my mind wraps around this notion, my fingers burying into the damp hair at my temples. It is one thing to feel suspicious, and another to hold the meat of those suspicions in one's hand.

Taking me ever so lightly by the elbow Anders turns me slightly towards the dim coals of the hearth fire in the far back corner, releasing me quickly before I can shake the familiarity off. I cannot help eying him suspiciously at the brief touch. He seems a decent enough sort, but I've not lived a year in Kirkwall without gaining a little worldly wisdom.

"Warm up a bit before you go, if you like. Let your things dry." He moves off ahead of me, kneeling by the coals and settling a few logs in place, blowing gently on the coals to try and stir the heat back into a proper fire. It's an oddly practical exercise, especially for a mage.

_Maker._ I lean on the table a moment, eyes scanning the pages, unable to read the words with a mind so full. I'm not sure what angers me more, the fact the inheritance is gone, or the fact Gamlen rubbed our beholden little faces in his exorbitant accommodation. I take a deep breath, calming myself, and glance towards the Healer who is still huffing and puffing while the first trickles of flame begin to crawl up the wood.

Determined not to let the anger overwhelm me I follow Anders path, taking a seat on a lumpy, deflated cushion and suddenly far too aware of the chill in the air. He sits back on his heels, watching the flames lick upwards.

"So, enough of my troubles. What's an apostate like you doing in a slum like this?"

* * *

AN:


	6. Chapter 6

AN: My apologies for the delay, my muse was overwhelmed by a new work schedule and starting a new class. 5 AM comes 2.5 hours earlier than I'm used to waking! This is slightly more filler-esque than I had intended, but I hope you enjoy the drabble. Hope it's not too long! This chapter was a _beast_ to write, but my muse wouldn't let me move on until it was done.

One question, how much recap of events I am leaving canon are you all interested in? Would it bore you (there is a fair amount out there already), or would you like seeing it through Sinead's eyes? Unless requested, I had intended on skimming over those. I welcome any reviews and comments. Thanks to all my reviewers so far!

~M

P.S. _Sinead - Pronounced Shi-Nade_

_Thanks to my beta reader Cyanide_Disaster.  
_

* * *

**Beliefs, Parts 1 & 2  
**

"_So what's an apostate like you doing in a slum like this?"_

He doesn't answer my question immediately, in fact, the routine gestures of tending the fire are perhaps the foil to some other considerations to which I am not privy. Carefully, he settles two larger logs on the fire, canting them against other carefully arranged pieces of wood before finally settling down onto a rather flat cushion of his own.

"An apostate like me?" There is a slight frown pulling at his lips and eyes as he turns towards me. I am not entirely prepared for the sudden intensity of his gaze.

"Sister of an apostate here, I come in peace!" Flashing the most charming grin at my disposal, I lift my palms in the universally acknowledged gesture of diplomacy. It is difficult not to shift under such scrutiny, but I cross my legs more comfortably, scooting closer to the fire's warmth, aiming for nonchalance. "It's only… this is Kirkwall after all. Crawling with Templars and tensions. And, well, a place of healing like this isn't entirely… discreet, is it?" Only when the rigidity eases from his shoulders am I aware he was even tense. Suddenly seeming to realize I'm watching _him_ watch _me,_ his hand rubs somewhat sheepishly at the back of his neck, expression rueful.

"After escaping the Fereldan circle and being dragged back six times, I made the best of a bad situation. Decided to throw my lot in with the other Fereldan refugees here in Kirkwall after my last departure. Seems to have worked so far." He pauses, and there is a sense of things left unsaid before he glances briefly in my direction. "Your sister is an apostate, yet _you _came to Kirkwall. _Despite_ all these Templars and tensions." I bristle at the implied criticism in this matter-of-fact appraisal. _Come now, is it any less impertinent than your own, be fair._

"Mother's family and name, we hoped, might afford us some protection." The laugh that escapes me is a little brittle as I find myself on the one topic I'd rather avoid. "Rather the opposite, considering." My eyes fall to my lap as I spread my hands, studying them, callused palms, scarred fingers, ragged nails. I can't help but marvel at our naiveté. With the stink of the sewers still hovering in my nostrils, it is difficult to imagine myself wandering the halls of _any_ estate in any legitimate way. _I'm not sure what good a name and estate will do without the means to support both. _I only realize I have spoken aloud when Anders eyebrows lift in amusement.

"Nobles are clannish, I gather. They bicker amongst each other, jockey for status, but if they feel their collective rights threatened I rather think they'd up and howl. It's better than nothing, perhaps." _Implication being… we have nothing now._ I sigh, unable to dispute this. Again, I feel the weight of his gaze and this lights a spark of irritation. _Enough with being diplomatic._

"Do I stink worse than I realize or has the toxicity of the sewers given me a third eye?" The touch of asperity provokes a grudging, apologetic laugh from my companion.

"Sorry… It's nothing." There is no further elaboration, but at least his gaze shifts elsewhere. The studied indifference to his next question doesn't enlighten me further, even as it heightens my curiousity. "Your family name is Amell?" His thumb arcs back over his shoulder in explanation at my surprise. "The papers..."

"Oh, yes. I see. No, it's Hawke, actually. Mother's the Amell, she… ran away with my father after he escaped the Kirkwall Circle." I pause, suddenly recalling his earlier words and eyeing him doubtfully. "Wait a minute… you escaped a Circle _seven_ times? How…?"

"Tell me something can't be done and that's challenge enough." Despite the layer of amusement, his fist clenches where it rests on his knee. "Mages may get a gilded cage, but the circle is still a cage when all is said and done. Another form of slavery. The Maker says only that magic shall not rule over man, not that we should all be punished for a gift He gave us."

"That sounds like something my father would have said." _Thankfully the similarity ends there._ The thought slithers through my mind and fades. There is no time to examine its origins, however, as he resumes.

"In the circle, there is no privacy… no freedom of choice… little companionship. Did you know there are dozens of suicides in a Tower over the course of a year? They keep it quiet. They keep everything quiet."

"Bad as all that is, it's not only about what happens within the tower either," his head lifts abruptly at the force of my words, eyes narrowing slightly at the heat in my comment. I meet his gaze squarely, softening my tone. "Not to belittle your difficulties within the circle. But what of us left behind? I'm sure you've seen what a life outside the circle is like. Imagine that with a family! The constant fear of knowing your life might be torn asunder because of an unwary slip of the tongue. We all felt it, even though my father and sister were the only apostates." Old angers stir, but I wrestle them into quiescence._ There is nothing to be done. It's just the way of the world in which we live._

This is apparently a new perspective for the healer and there is a sudden strange, pale glitter to the eyes that meet mine. Trying to remain undaunted, I continue. "Until Lothering, we didn't stay anywhere for much longer than six months at a time. No friends. No home. Scraping by on what little we could scrounge as vagrants. Even after, there was always that constant fear of discovery. Don't misunderstand me… I wouldn't give up a moment if it meant losing my sister… but that doesn't mean it was pleasant for any of us.

"And for those who don't run… a cousin of my mother? She has lost _all three_ of her children to the circle. Every. Single. One." I sigh, the flow of words trickling to a stop before frustration gets the better of me.

"Not all families feel the loss so keenly." He doesn't elaborate on his quiet words, but I shrug uncomfortably at the implication. There is something of personal experience to weight his comment, and I try to squelch the surge of pity that rises. Something tells me he would not appreciate it. Running my fingers through my hair, I carefully part the thickly curling strands. _Still damp_. The warmth of the fire is conjuring a light steam from my clothing, but Anders' words leave a certain chill that the fire cannot disperse. Misunderstanding the shiver that traces down my spine, he slides in closer to the fire, feeding more logs to the flames.

"Well what else can we expect?" He leans slightly towards me with a questioning air, forcing me to repeat those soft words a little more loudly. The faint musk of herbals scent the air with his movement, amplified by the fire's heat. I suddenly hope the scent of the sewers is not similarly apparent on myself and take a cautious sniff when Anders begins prodding the fire with a piece of kindling. He is waiting for me to continue. "The Chantry paints mages as demons incarnate, practically. As if something as simple as a sneeze allows them entry. Watching father and Bethany, and listening… well, as far as I can tell, this feared 'possession' requires conscious choice. These things don't just 'happen'." I eye him through the strands of hair thinly shielding my face, startling a somewhat resigned look there that seems terribly out of place. I puzzle at it briefly before continuing. "I know that not all mages can withstand temptation, but…" Abruptly flinging my hands in the air, I cannot sort the words that jostle for purchase. "Sorry, I shouldn't let myself get so carried away…"

"No, what you say is true. There must be an invitation in… those situations." Still prodding the fire with the bit of kindling, I jump as he suddenly shoves it violently into the heart of the flames, sending sparks flying. He slides abruptly back to his earlier seat, leaving me to stare at him in brief surprise. A charred log, dislodged, tips into the heart of the fire, sending ash swirling. Trying to lighten the mood, I part my lips to speak and pray that stupid doesn't fall out.

"I've never been good at the 'make no sudden movement' thing. Something wrong?" When he glances back to me, eyebrows lowered thoughtfully over amber eyes, there is a dark puzzlement there.

"You seem… surprisingly open-minded for…."

"For someone who isn't a mage? If you'd known my father, I doubt you'd be so surprised." He laughs a little at my dry tone, and the ensuing silence is surprisingly companionable as the tension once again eases. We are both, apparently, caught up in our own thoughts and considerations.

* * *

_The house is hushed with sleep, barring the quiet snorts of Carver's snoring in the loft above. I curl as close to the fire's heat as I dare without singeing the pages of my book. The light flickers, dimly, and the letters swim, a frustrating tangle to my bleary eyes. _

"_Still up?" Kindling scatters as I startle at the wry voice above me, but it is only father. He leans over, ruffling my cap of curls before hooking a chair with a foot and dragging it over. There is no sense in hiding the book, he has seen it already. _

"_Just a little light reading before bed. Speaking of…" I yawn and scramble to my feet, the item in question tucked under my arm with all the nonchalance fifteen years of life has granted me. "has the moon really set already…?" Father isn't put off by my evasiveness, having had many more years in which to master the art himself._

"_The Chant of Light, hm?" His head cants to one side, reading the title on the thick binding aloud with a snort of laughter. "A little 'light' reading, indeed." His eyebrow raises, and I shift uncomfortably at his careful study._

"_What brings this on?" The gentle question provokes the fear and uncertainty that has been writhing within me since my return from the Lothering market that morning. "Red?" _

"_There was an… apostate… captured by Templars… in the market today." I'd spent the afternoon slinging pebbles at the tiny colored bits of glass in the Chantry windows, in an effort to feel better. It hadn't worked. _But serves them right just the same.

"_And…?" Father's sympathetic tone only serves to condense the anger congealing in my gut, and I lash out, angry._

"_I just wanted to understand. You… and Bethany… it's like they think mages are monsters. But you're not! How can __**they**__ get away with such things? Wanting to lock you up. Take you away. Life. Isn't. fair!" The book goes flying across the room to punctuate the last word, and I wince at the clatter, suddenly deflated._

_Father sighs at my frustration, but he isn't angry like I expect, gathering me down next to him. I settle beside his chair, elbow on his knee, cheek on my fist. It's been years since I sat at his feet like a little girl, but father only lays his weathered hand lightly on my head. _

"_Do you know why your mother and I named you Sinead, Red?" Although still tense with what I had witnessed just this morning, I can't help but roll my eyes. _And here I thought he'd say something **useful**.

"_Something so unpronounceable you only ever use my nickname? Can't be that spectacular." A fingertip taps me on my nose for my insolence, but we exchange a private grin. Being the two lone redheads in our family is only one of our special bonds. For all his pride in Bethany's abilities, there is relief in his eyes when I master some new non-magical ability. He encourages me to master these things, and though he teaches Bethany much, he never pushes her to learn more than is necessary. That too, is another secret we share._

"_It means 'Maker is gracious*'." Impatient, I shift in place, none too pleased at the reference to an unsatisfying divine being with far too much influence. My movements still, however, as father continues. "I can't blame the _Maker_, when it is the servants who are in error. The Maker gave me your mother, He gave me you, and Bethany and Carver. When I consider that none of this might be, I realize He has been very gracious to me indeed. Fortunately and unfortunately, we all have free wil:, to follow the Maker or not, to twist the Chant to our own bias or not."_

"_But the chant itself…" He shakes his head, a light in his eyes that leaves me instantly wary._

"_What does the Chant say, Red." I lean back on my heels, wrinkling my nose at him with distaste and an attempt at recollection._

"_Magic serves man but shouldn't rule... something about mages being corrupt and Maleficar…" My words grind to a halt at the sudden explosion of laughter that rocks him, though it is quickly stifled._

"_And this is why there is so much fear, daughter. Bad recollections governing opinions. Crack that little book open and let's see what the actual quotation is." With a grumble, I go fetch the book, wincing slightly at the crushed pages from where it had landed. Opening it, I settle next to father and cross my legs, thumb brushing futilely against the pages as I suddenly realize I don't know where to go. "Transfigurations, Chapter 1, Verses 2 through 4." The gentle prompt disconcerts me. _He knows the exact passage? Father?_ It takes me a couple minutes, flipping pages this way and that, before I find it. He waits, and with a longsuffering sigh, I begin reading._

"_Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him._ _Foul and corrupt are they_ w_ho have taken His gift_ a_nd turned it against His children._ _They shall be named Maleficar, accursed ones._ _They shall find no rest in this world_ _or beyond**._"_ I snap the leaves shut, ready to throw it again when father nimbly snatches it from my hand. "See! Rubbish."_

"_I taught you better than that, Sinead. Read on." Though patient, there is a stern note I know better than to cross. Grumbling under my breath, I obey._

"_All men are the Work of our Maker's Hands, from the lowest slaves to the highest kings. Those who bring harm without provocation to the least of His children are hated and accursed by the Maker." I glance at Father, but he nods at me to continue._

"_Those who bear false witness and work to deceive others, know this: There is but one Truth. All things are known to our Maker and He shall judge their lies." My lips clap shut as his hand drops to my shoulder._

"_Think about it." The quiet rumble of his words brooks no argument, but while I resent it, I find myself pondering the meaning of what I had just spoken. So we sit there for a time, in silence. I think. Finally, I take a breath, ready to trot my uncertain jumble of words out._

"_Well, the chantry quotes that first part. A lot. But, that second verse… it says that anyone who brings harm to his Children are, well, accursed?" Eyeing him to see if I'm on the right track, his nod lends me confidence, and I continue, feeling out the words as I might a puzzle piece, waiting for the ideas to fit together until they form a cohesive whole. "So if we're all the Makers children, including mages somewhere between slave and kings…" I flounder, suddenly, feeling less sure in my anger, but not quite connecting the concepts. Father takes pity, perhaps recognizing the frustrating aligning my eyebrows._

"_What it means, Sinead, is that we are all equal in the Maker's sight, all created by Him for a given purpose. Even mages. We all have a responsibility to do no harm, those with magic and those without. And the last verse you read, it means that the Maker's eye is on those who abuse it, and he will judge them accordingly. We cannot choose for others, we cannot change what is, or the Circle, or the Templars. But we can choose to live our lives to honor the Maker, so we can stand blameless before Him when the time comes." I'm still not sure that makes the situation palatable. He makes it sound so easy, and for that, I cannot help but feel resentful. Watching the Templars haul that apostate away in chains this morning has left me sick at heart and stomach. _What if it had been Bethany… or Father?_ Yet as I think on Father's words, a little of the pressure eases. "Even midst all the madness of this life, the Maker gives us moments of happiness. We take what He offers when we can, and hold on to it when the road is not so easy."_

* * *

_What did the Maker say to you, Father, when you stood before him? _It had been baerly three short years later before the Maker, not the Templars, had taken him from us.

"..-inead?" Startled from the memories, I glance at my companion, slightly disoriented. "Hawke?"

"Sorry, what?" Anders is watching me, eyebrows lifted with an echo of a polite question which I cannot recall. I wonder how long I have been unaware of the attention. Thankfully, the warmth of the fire has already flushed my cheeks, or my embarrassment might be more easily read.

"I was just asking… there was an Amell in the Fereldan circle, Delyn, I think she was. Any relation?" The fire is still burning, though it is mostly coal now. My gear is nearly dry, and stiff from the abuse.

"Um. Yes?" I wipe a sudden sensation of weariness from my eyes as I try to frame a response. "One of those cousins I mentioned, earlier. She's made a bit of a name for herself back in Fereldan, if any rumors are to be trusted." There is a faint, slightly secretive smile that plays about his lips at this. I cannot quite contain my curiousity. "Did you know her well?" The smile fades as quickly as it appears.

"The rumors can be trusted, at least. Slayer of Archdemons, Hero of Fereldan, Commander of the Grey…" I stop short of pointing out that wasn't the question I had asked, but something restrains me from pushing. Half of my mind is still toying with the memory that had come to me so strongly, and the other... well, I am not really interested in ferreting out the details at this late… hour….

I have no concept of how much time has passed, but I am suddenly aware that the dimming fire is not the only illumination in the room. The sky, barely visible through the planks covering the high warehouse windows, is paling. _What are you doing? Whiling away the night? They're sitting at home, waiting!_

"Oh! Oh _Maker_, is it dawn already?" My legs are half asleep from sitting so long, but as I begin to unfold myself, Anders is already standing, offering me a hand. I hesitate a second, unused to the courtesy, then grab it, awkward and ungainly as I'm hauled to my feet. His palm is briefly warm against mine, callused differently, grip firm but gentle. I release it quickly, as if stung, feeling embarrassed for no worthwhile reason and quickly turn to gather my things. "They'll be fretting that something happened…"

"Well, something did happen, didn't it?" His response elicits a wrinkled nose in his general direction as I move to the table, carefully stacking the pages of the will. Ash and smoke waft on the air as he stirs the coals, stifling the flames.

"Not that they will ever know!" My response is dripping with forced unconcern. "It happened, the danger has passed, nothing left to do but move on." Waiting for all my papers to be in hand, he dims the lantern with a twitch of his fingers.

"Much as I admire the sentiment…" he pauses, and I'm aware he is watching my hands as I fold the papers neatly along their familiar creases. I tilt my head to one side, waiting for him to continue. "Your sister seems like a capable girl, had you someone to watch your back…"

"Don't." My right hand is raised to stop the words he is about to speak as steel replaces my jovial tone. "I manage." He subsides, retreating from sensitive territory, for which I am heartily grateful. _No way am I placing her in danger again._ I turn slightly away, shielding my movements as I tuck the papers back underneath my armor, the pages cool as they crinkle against my skin.

"Thanks, for the fire and…" Turning back, I find him slipping on that strange feathered coat and I blink stupidly at him, as if I've missed something. "Are you… going somewhere?"

"While I'm sure you are quite capable of handling yourself, dear lady," there is a wry note to his tone as he steps past me towards the door. _Did he just wink at me? No; No, it must be a trick of the light._ The shadow of a long staff is in his hand, a tool clearly of more use than a simple walking stick. Amused, I wonder if he is making a point through action that I would not allow in words. _Touché, feathered knight, so it's safer to have someone watch my back, yes. _"and much as I've enjoyed the company, I think ensuring you have an uneventful passage through Darktown is in both our interests." I don't know quite what to make of _that_, but I have the whole walk back to Lowtown to figure it out.

* * *

*Sinead – Irish for "God is Gracious"

**Quotes from "Chant of the Light" in the Dragon Age Wiki, property of Bioware and quoted verbatim.


	7. Chapter 7

_Note: Sorry for the long wait! This is a bit clunky, but had to get back into the swing of things. Feedback welcome, I feel a bit rusty and something isn't setting right with this one. :)_**  
**

* * *

**A Day in the Life, Part 1**_  
Beta Read by Shotgun Infinity_

The long entrance towards the Viscount's Keep is a grim, spare walk even when the sky is not weighted with gray clouds as it this morning. With the chill of a spring storm fading briskly out to sea the pale daylight diffuses miserably about Kirkwall, flattening edges and washing out colors. It is difficult to recall the green, earthy scents of Lothering's gentle spring rains in this dank, dirty city. Thankfully the breeze is towards the docks, diverting the sour scents of fish and stale seaweed I am growing accustomed to and leaving only the general grime of the stone-encased city to tickle at my nostrils.

Passing the columns lining the Keep's walkway, the darkened slits of guards helmets shift slightly as I pass. I can almost hear the rasp of metal against metal as their armor shifts with them. The skin between my shoulder blades prickles at the imagined weight of authority's gaze, but there are a handful of others lingering about the entrance and ambling towards the Keep. As far as anyone knows I'm just an ordinary citizen. _Not the sister of an Apostate. Not a former denizen of the Kirkwallian underworld._ Perhaps I only imagine the weight of their gazes. Even if not, I am, after all, a woman, and while I might not have Bethany's soft curves, I'm not exactly an _eyesore_. All I have to do is give them no reason to question my presence. My thoughts echo around in my head like my footsteps echo off the cold stone.

_Sinead, you think too much_. Somehow, however, even knowing that doesn't keep those same thoughts from whirling in aimless circles. Perhaps I'll never be truly comfortable around authority. _Only for you, Aveline._

Curiosity and a sense of obligation keep my feet pointed towards the massive doorway and the innards of the keep as I answer Aveline's summons. The keep itself is a cold, spare place with high-ceilings and wasted space. Now beyond the massive doors, a chill splendor surrounds me, all harsh stone angles softened by hangings and potted greenery. Somehow, even with all the fine trappings, it is hard not to see the harshness of the former slaver empire. Two great winged stairways flank the doors, and I turn right mounting the nearest.

A young man begins his descent down the flight just above, face dark with the defiance only the young seem to have. (If I do say so myself, from my wise vantage of twenty-two years). There is a moment's confusion as we both seek to side-step the other, unintentionally mirroring each other's movements in a parody of dance. There is an impression of bright eyes, round features and dark hair as our interaction jostles the young man from whatever dark thoughts weighed upon him so heavily. We pause to sort out our steps, and he tilts his head in a slight, but gracious bow, his glance flickering to a whinging noble below, the man complaining about the wait to see the Viscount, and then to my eyes. Something in my expression stirs a smile in his.

"Excuse me, Lady." He pauses, belatedly taking in the plain, if neat, leathers of my daily gear, far from the rich clothing he himself wears. I note the realization of error in his eyes, but to his credit, his youthful demeanor remains unchanged. His lips reciprocate the amused grin I find twitching at my own. I step to one side and we each continue on our separate paths. Seconds later a self-important figure flurries down the steps, brushing past me after the young man's retreating form.

"Saemus! Your father demands..." Not wanting to attract attention on my own, I eye the two, vaguely certain the flustered man in the Seneschal, his comments making the other... the Viscount's son?

Turning away from the little scene, amused that even the most timeless of family squabbles plagues those of the Viscount's home, it takes me a spare few moments to mount the stairs until I must descend again to the Chambers of the Guard. One wonders, in an emergency, what stamina the guards would retain if their presence were required after climbing so many stairs and charging down the long entranceway, burdened as they were by their standard heavy armor. Tossing these thoughts aside, I finally turn one last corner and find myself in the common room of the Barracks. Several eyes turn towards me, a commoner intruding upon private spaces, and I quickly take in the room, noting doorways, people... "Aveline!" I cast my arms wide in an amused greeting as I spy the familiar orange head, bowed intently towards what I assume are the most recent guard assignments. "Received your note..." I feel the weight of eyes slip away from me as Aveline turns, and there is perhaps a little surprise as she blinks at me, though I never would have guessed it from her lackluster greeting me.

"Ah, Hawke... I've been waiting for you." She eyes me somewhat askance, alert, assessing, likely noting my lack of obvious weaponry and wondering what I've tucked out of sight. "You've filed your teeth since your last visit, not turning lapdog on me already?" Teasing out a coquettish flutter of lashes at her observation, I manage to maintain a blank expression in the face of her bemused one.

"If there's anywhere I should be safe, it's the _Keep_, isn't it?" My short haphazard curls flop about my chin as I tilt my head. Aveline settles herself against the wall next to me, merely raising an eyebrow. "Haven't seen you around much lately, but that doesn't usually end up in a summons! And the Keep, of all places...?"

"Keep better company, you scamp, and you'd have less to worry about, hm?" She waves these words aside, moving the conversation quickly to the point. The room is bustling, and I realize it must be near patrol change. "You'd think I wouldn't be so busy, but I've been pushed out to some dead patrols. Unsatisfying busywork..." Her strong features twist in a brief, uncomfortable grimace. "I _should_ be able to go where I'm needed. Sitting on my hands… when there are dangerous people here…" She straightens slightly, eyeing me somewhat expectantly, and I get a suspicious thought that our friendly neighborhood guardswoman has been sticking her fingers in some other peoples' pies. I can't help but laugh, knowing her strong will and firm beliefs in honor have not always meshed well with her current compatriots. _Father would have liked her. For all her husband was a Templar._

"My dear Guardswoman, you are positively beginning to smack of conspiracy! Mayhap you merely... stepped on someone's toes? You _can _be rather… forceful." Aveline grins at this, baring teeth in an expression both feminine and somehow terrifying.

"My charm right?" Amusement fading, her fist taps restlessly against an armored thigh. "My patrols may be empty walks in the dark, but we have something big coming up, and I could use you." Her voice grows quieter. "An ambush, probably for a caravan, although I can't find any shipments that match up." A shake of her head, "Doesn't matter though. Highwaymen waiting for someone to rob? I'm putting a stop to it, my district or not."

"I'm no guard, Aveline, I don't know if the attention..." Skeptical though I am, she interrupts me with a sharply dismissive gesture.

"We're short-handed, but we're allowed temporary recruits as long as they're _competent_." She eyes me, a friendly challenge in her eyes. _Oh, but don't you know just the right buttons to push..._ Perhaps sensing my indecision, she pushes on, _"_There's profit and influence to be had if we do this right, but we don't have to advertise your participation if that's your concern."

"It's not that I'm incompetent…" I sigh, putting all the tolerance and long-suffering I can muster in it. My fingers form a little salute in touche. "But the pay better be good. Do we have a name? Anything specific?"

"No need. If we show up and they attack, their intent will be obvious. I'll wager it's smugglers, but we'll take any for questioning and prosecute those we can." The guardswoman rubs her hands together, eyes glittering, as if all is accomplished already. "I knew I could count on you Hawke. I've funds for you and one or two others, if there are some you trust." Standing, I offer her a sisterly clout to the shoulder. It is but a few moments to arrange the time and place for our excursion this afternoon, but I hesitate briefly before withdrawing.

"One last thing, since I'm here." Uncertain of her reaction, I watch her expression carefully. "You familiar with a Bartrand Tethras?"

"If you're thinking of those rumors regarding that Deep Road expedition, well..." She eyes me sharply, snorting her disapproval. Her fingers twitch as if has half a mind to march me straight home. "He's a nasty son of a bitch, on the wrong day."

"And just nasty on the right day?" She doesn't bat an eyelash at my amused rejoinder, merely nodding, and I sigh, casting my eyes to the heavens. Shrugging noncommittally, I turn to leave, but though her voice is heavy with distaste, she continues.

"If that's something you're considering, well, it is no place to tread lightly. If you simply must satisfy your curiosity, he's set himself up in the Northeast Plaza. Tight-fisted, but fair, if you can get past the attitude." Waving my thanks, I glance back to see her brows furrowed with concern, and she calls out once more, tone more a command than a caution.

"Watch your back, Hawke."

* * *

Aveline's words follow me, nipping at my heels as I step briskly forth from the keep, the sky lightening above me, hints of blue flirting from behind swiftly flowing clouds. A teasing errant breeze sweeps me along, a taste of the more powerful flows of air hustling along the earlier storm like an errant child.

As my steps draw me towards the market, I must skirt the increasing flow of traffic, absurdly conscious of the fine fabrics and gear of those around me. Even my winning smile, canted towards the random passerby, cannot entirely divert attention from my plain, if clean-cut, garb. I find Bethany hovering wistfully over a clothing stall, fingering some rich blue fabric with delicate hands, oblivious to the merchant's suspicious eyes. Jinks lays at her heels, leaning heavily into her calves. The Mabari is a picture of dejection, his muzzle rests on crossed paws, ears slightly flattened with boredom, even as I watch, his deep chest heaves with a long, drawn-out sigh. While he is the picture of good behavior, I note a glint of calculation as he eyes a butcher stand across the plaza. His nose twitches as the swirling breeze carries tantalizing scents, at least to a dog, his way. I can't help but quicken my step with a pang of dismay. _Ah Bethany, this isn't exactly 'taking the dog for a walk', now, is it? _Facing an Archdemon might be preferable to dealing with the repercussions of a bored Mabari tempted by marketplace treasures!

Jinks' whuffles at my approach, distracted from disobedience, jumping playfully to all fours, all puppy despite his massive bulk and supposed maturity. His tough pads and nails click sharply against the cobbled stone ground.

"Come now! Is that any way for a War Dog to behave?" One soulful look from those dark brown eyes and he sees through my attempt at chastisement, butting his head into my waist for an ear scratch, nearly knocking me over in exuberance. Waggling his short tail eagerly, his rump swings back and forth fit to knock him over.

"Ready to go Bethy?" Having dropped the fabric at my approach, my sister excuses herself from the merchant, words unintelligible over Jinks exuberance. Guilt flushes her round features, as she joins me however, falling into step beside me as I turn towards the plaza Aveline had mentioned.

"I was just..." My hand waves benevolently as I cut off her excuses, shrugging my amusement.

"Bethy, we've barely two coppers to rub together, but if you really enjoy teasing yourself with things we can't have... no skin off my nose!" Pulling myself back on task, I rub my hands together with anticipation of my news, patting my thigh mechanically to ensure Jinks is at my heels and not succumbing to other tantalizing market temptations.

"That Tethras is set up just over the way, first off. But... sooner than that, fancy a late night stroll with Aveline? There's pay, as well. For both of us." She stops dead in her tracks, eyeing me with surprise and not a little sisterly skepticism.

"You've barely tolerated me sticking a toenail out the front door since..." restraining a grin, I watch her catch at a lip with her teeth, her expressive face torn between curiousity and hopefulness. With a flicker of guilt, I add up the days since our last excursion with Athenril. _Two months. Really? That long?_

"You've been moping about as badly as Jinks the last few days. At least if we're not _in_ Kirkwall there are fewer to see anything they shouldn't, hmm?" _And its not because your Bloody Anders said anything, either. To help Aveline. Nothing more. Really!_

"What's the catch?" Her question sends my eyes rolling. _Maker! _Throwing my hands up with exasperation, I continue walking, forcing her to scurry when she finally decides to catch up. "Well?"

Our friendly sisterly bickering continues as we walk and my sister realizes I will not renege on the offer. We step into the plaza that is our destination in time for a brief flicker of sunlight to pierce the clouds, our entrance greeted by a friendly brisk breeze briefly tangles itself in Bethany's dress. It is the only welcome we receive, and I glance around at the masculine weighted plaza. Dwarven and human men skirt the perimeter, and at the far end a line forms, obscuring whatever they are lining up for. Bethany takes a half step closer to me, but I shrug and continue more slowly as I get my bearings.

"Looking for Bartrand?" A dwarf, face covered with a weblike tattoo of angled blue lines, sees us eyeing the plaza's expanse and gruffly waves towards the line I had spied earlier. As the men there shuffle forwards, I spy another Dwarf sitting at a table, scrawling notes with a short, featherless quill. After exchanging a glance, Bethany and I take a place at the end of a line. We receive no few looks, ranging from curiousity to impertinence. The latter gazes receive a bored arch of my eyebrow and a dismissive yawn, though I can almost feel the warmth of Bethany's embarrassment at the attention. Jinks settling between us with a brief whine at having to _be still_ yet again.

The wait is not long, each hopeful stepping forward, responding to a few questions and moving on in various states of pleasure or disappointment. The squat dwarf at the table tugs at his long, intricately braided beard with two fingers as Bethy and I make our approach. Already he is setting his quill down next to the page, pale blue eyes falling to first Bethany and then myself, then flickering dismissively past us to the next in line. His mouth opens to call up the man behind us, but I am not about to tolerate such treatment.

"You Bartrand?" I step into his line of sight, voice firm, if not entirely easy. This will not be my first encounter with someone of his nature, and though his reaction is not a good sign, I recall Aveline's words. _Nasty even on a good day..._ Well, as long as his coin weighs right, I can deal with the rest. Bethany will have to learn to do so on her own. I fight down a worthless regret at exposing her to what I know is about to come, and hope that she does not, at least, embarrass me too much with her somewhat demure sense of propriety. Even a short stint in the Fereldan army taught me how little such things mattered.

"Yes." He grunts, his eyes travelling from the toes of my boots to the top of my head, lingering on various places in between and leaving my professional smile a trifle strained. The nails of my right hand prickle the palm as my fingers briefly form a fist. "What do you want?" The bare tolerance in his tone nettles me, but I press on, teeth gritted. Bethany stands stiffly at my elbow, no longer registering in the dwarf's awareness.

"Same as the others, here, Ser. If you are, in fact, the one running the expedition to the Deep Roads?"

"We're not looking for a cook. Move along." The growl of his voice is only slightly less offensive than the sneer curling upon his bearded lips. "I'm looking for hardy types that know more than which end of a sword is pointy. Not camp followers. Not eye candy. Not distractions." I eye him with growing distaste, and imagine I can feel the heat of Bethany's embarrassment surging behind me. _Bloody…. that better not be..._ Glancing quickly her way, I see the tightness in her eyes as she exerts control over her magery.

"I'm experienced." The words emerge stiffly, a formal challenge to his assumptions. "I fought Darkspawn at Ostagar through two successful engagements, prior to the Usurper's retreat. When bringing my family to safety, my sister and I also fought our way free of the Fereldan Blight from where the first village was destroyed. We'd be a great asset..."

"Look, _woman_..."

"Hawke." He glares at the forced introduction.

"I'm not interested. Deep Roads are no place for the likes fo you. Get your... and your sisters... 'assets' back to the Rose where they belong if you need more coin. We're done here." C_hauvinist pig_. My fingers flex as my anger surges. It is one thing to decline to hire a person, another entirely to malign a person while doing so.

Rather than planting a fist on his smug nose, satisfying as that would be, I instead plant a palm on the table. Leaning forward to loom over him, I try to mimic Aveline's ominous yet charming flash of teeth. Tethras leans withdraws, almost imperceptibly, and I sense a thrill of triumph at his slight retreat. I've heard plenty worse over the last few years, but I'll not subject Bethany to this louse without some kind of rejoinder.

"If you took a moment to judge me on skill, and not my tits..." Bethany lets out a little noise behind me, but now isn't the time to back down. Not that the curves, my curves at any rate, under discussion are exactly prominent anyway... "You might find you had a better chance at surviving your little excursion. How many here do you think have personal experience?" As I lean closer, I can see him squirm slightly, one hand motioning towards the side.

"We don't do women, you twit!" His voice bursts forth in blustering impatience, obviously unsettled by my proximity. With as charming a grin as I can muster, I straighten, laying a knowing finger on the side of my nose, backing away as two dwarven bodyguards approach. Their steps falter as Jinks perks his short ears, then lowers his head defensively with a rumble of challenge.

"Well. You boys have fun, then." A guffaw from the line behind me seems to make him assess this last comment, and his pale skin grows mottled, the purplish shades clashing with the reddish-blonde of hair and beard. "Come Jinks."

"Go on. Off with you!"

Turning, I surprise a few choice looks assessing at least one of the 'assets' under discussion as I leaned over the table. A broad-shouldered man, the next in line, winks at me in amusement from beneath a blonde fringe of hair, his glance of appreciation skimming right past Bethany's red face and settling boldly on me. The play of a smile about his lips hint that his was the abrupt laugh heard just moments prior. While in other circumstances I might make bold and offer the man a beer, in this case I can't afford to leave that kind of impression. _Pity._ Besides, until we had better protection for Bethany, best to avoid unnecessary complications.

"Men." Exasperated, I follow Bethany at a comfortable pace, pausing briefly once out of sight to gently pull at her elbow. "Sorry Bethy. That was a mess." With a grimace I brush my curls from my face and study my sister. Her face is glowing with mortification, but even so, she giggles a little, lifting her chin in an effort to convince me that she's no wilting daisy.

"Your ability to march your opponents into compromising phrases never ceases to amaze me, Shinae!" Patting her on the shoulder in approval, we turn towards home, though my sister's sweet tongue finds a rather saucy rejoinder to my antics. "But is it really necessary to burn bridges so completely?"

"There was no bridge to burn, Bethy, only face to save. You'll learn." With a jaunty wink, I turn towards the paths that will lead us home, relieved that she is learning to take these situations in stride. After a few minutes silence, we begin discussing Aveline's mysterious ambush.

"Aveline said one or two?" We are descending into our usual Lowtown haunts, and I return a wave to Elegant, _Lady Elegant indeed_, rolling my eyes a little at the woman's pretension as she turns to a customer seeking her potions. Her stall is one of many in the dingier poor man's market, here where the scent from the docks is not entirely brushed away by the breeze. I am keeping a casual eye about for trouble, and Bethany's question catches me unawares.

"What?"

"Aveline said you could bring one or two people?" There is a carefully cultivated nonchalance to the question that immediately grabs my attention. I eye my sister carefully, and she flushes at the look, nibbling a lip with uncertainty. _No. Bloody Fade. Enough is enough._

"Don't tell me you want to bring..." _Don't say it…._

"But Anders..."


	8. Chapter 8

_Note: Sometime in the near future I will be cleaning up my early first 6 chapters or so for some things that are driving me nuts, and removing all the silly notes at the beginning. I think having my comments at the beginning detracts from the story readability! So this will be the last one. ;) Just a warning for my subscribers, as you'll get a lot of 'updates' from my story when that happens! Thanks for the reviews and subscribes!_

* * *

_**A Day in the Life, Part 2  
**__Beta-Rea by: Iavasgil_

_Just why was this a good idea, again?_

With a few steps, I shift from sun-warmed cobbles and the clear dusty streets of Lowtown into the half-lit murkiness of Darktown. Chance streams of sunlight flit past me, as I descend, but they too begin to fade and disperse after only a few steps. The dimness is disconcerting after the bright natural light and rain-freshened air of the world above. Standing in the shadows, I squint until shapes grow distinct; the stench of squalor wafting towards me in questionable greeting. It permeates the walls and gathers in the randomly strewn rubble with the heaviness of stale air. As I continue my descent, the memories of Lothering and Fereldan seem distant, untouchable.

Memory directs my path. There, a distinctive streak along the passageway wall. And there... a low-ceilinged plaza of sorts; a few shoddy stalls propped in corners, the nervous merchants skittish, shady rabbits in this undercity warren. Though I pass by wordlessly, glancing only to ensure I am not followed, I know from familiarity that they could each roll up their wares and disappear into the slums at a moment's notice. Every sheltered corner along my path is occupied; some with bodies clustered around little, smoky fires, others with a ragged child, who crouches with palms uplifted, eyes full of a sharp, wily maturity while their voices lift in a pitiful, coached plea.

My coins, what few I carry, remain tucked safely in my waistband.

In a remarkably short amount of time - and after only a false turn or two - my wending path spits me out into what is becoming a familiar dead-end. The lantern in one corner sputters dimly. No noise emerges from behind the pair of closed doors that sit innocuously at the end. Though quiet, there is a subtle difference here from the rest of the slums I've just wandered through. It does not bear the dust and neglect of a truly abandoned corner.

My fingers wind about the door's handle, a nagging disquiet over Bethy's interest coming to full bloom now that the invitation is at hand.

_Should I allow it?_

I pause, the metal warming beneath my fingertips.

_Could I prevent it? She __**is**__ a Hawke, after all is said and done... sweet baby sister or no_

There had been that glimmer of defiance flickering in the depths of Bethany's eyes, and I rather guessed she might go traipsing off on her own should I refuse; and neither our pocket book nor our secrets could afford for her to go jaunting blithely through Darktown.

_No. No, it's better to have my fingers in the middle of it to start with. If she's going to be all foolish..._

A little thought trickles through: There are certainly worse people she could grow foolish over. Knight-Commander Cullen, for one.

Biting back a laugh at the thought I push the door open, stepping inside through a faint resistance that sets the little hairs on my skin on end. Between one breath and another I move from the oppressive glooom and silence of Darktown passageways to the abrupt noises of an industrious clinic. Habit sends the door swinging closed discretely behind me before rationality catches up.

_A ward. Against sound. Sensible._

It is the kind of attention to detail one seeks in an ally. My thoughts stutter to a halt at the casual inclusion as my eyes sweep around the busy room, picking through faces and shapes as I seek familiarity.

_**Is**__ he an ally?_

The scents and size of the expansive space recall those pre-dawn moments after learning of Gamlen's duplicity; the casual conversation, the courtesy, the element of concern. Athenril, too, had been kind, as long as I was working towards some objective of hers. There had been moments of companionship and trust there, too.

_And look where that got me, hm? Tangled up with Templars._

_There._

A familiar feathered jacket is cast haphazardly across a crate, its blond owner, however, remaining elusively out of sight. A grunt to one side catches my attention, after these spare moments of observation. Turning, I face a man lounging against the wall, one of his feet propped on the bowl of the water pump. A sword is in one hand, a stone in the other. Fingers clasp the stone firmly as it slides down the length of oiled steel. The faint rasp - high-pitched and menacing - pierces the general conversation as he watches me.

Now I can be all kinds of charming, when the mood strikes. So I flash my second-best grin his direction, and keep my hands away from the knives at my waist.

"I'm looking for Anders."

_Rasssp. Rasssp._

"Is he here?"

There is a baleful look in his eyes. I may not be well-dressed but my clothes are mended and the light armor I wear is well-oiled and supple - if still somewhat scratched and worn. While my nails may be ragged, they are as clean and neat as the rest of me. I can read it in his eyes; the thoughts that pick apart these pieces of my identity. The unsubtly hinted at, _'You don't belong here.'_

"You're not injured."

"As such," I sigh a little, upping my ante and flashing my next most charming grin; amused by the revelation of his truly _astounding _powers of observation. "I suppose we shall have to settle for a little genial conversation and pass on the mayhem."

I take a step farther into the room, ready to end the conversation, but find myself nose to nose with the clinic... bouncer? More than the flinty gaze, it is the quickness of his reflexes which gives me pause. Lifting my palms up, empty, all my amusement fades.

_How does a Fereldan refugee - and a mage at that - command such loyalty?_

It is a sobering thought followed by a slowly dawning realization.

_Anders is the only person down here in the Slums working for these people. Not even the Chantry dirties their boots down here._

"Your weapons aren't welcome - and you can wait in line with all the rest." His head tilts towards a handful of people, some propped against the far wall, others crouched beside it. Still more are holding palms and fingers to their particular areas of ailment.

Taking a step back, irritation burbles. The man is just doing what I assume to be his job but, even so, it's bloody-well irritating. Somewhere behind him, there is the ragged howl of outrage as an infant makes its first, vocal mark on the world. Other voices rise in a counterpoint of mingled exclamations.

"Look, this doesn't have to be complicated..." Trying to find the right mix of exasperation and amusement, I try to temper my increasing volume, with only moderate success. "It won't even take but hardly a minute." At the stoic, unchanging expression, I throw my hands to the air with an ironic laugh. "You only take a..."

"Hawke?" Surprised recognition from a third voice sends my partner-in-conversation and I turning, only to find Anders drying his hands on a scrap of rag. He cuts a fine - if slightly worn - profile; his narrow features illuminated by dimly filtered light from the high windows. The healer waves him off; a secretive, wry smile pulling at lips surrounded by scuff. His eyes focus on me with an almost audible _snap_ of routine assessment, to which my right eyebrow lifts archly.

The guard backs away; stooping to pick up his stone and settling back into position now that I have been slotted into an acceptable category.

"Do I meet with your approval, serah?"

My dry tone stirs a broader smile for a moment, and he responds with a quick, quiet laugh. "No trail of blood, templars, slavers... uncles...?" He glances at the door behind me as if half-expecting some manner of horde to appear at my heels.

When our eyes meet again briefly, however, something shifts in their depths and the moment of amusement passes; the warmth dissipating with a suddenness that leaves me a trifle unbalanced.

"Actually... I have something of an offer for you." I step closer to allow a few words spoken in confidence, leaning in ever so slightly that my practiced low tones extend to his ears only. "What are your thoughts regarding... bandits?" While a laugh burbles alongside the question, I level a look somewhat more serious in his direction. We are much of a height and I see the faint laugh lines flex briefly around his eyes before that momentary warmth fades again.

"Bandits?" He repeats, puzzled; expression blank but not entirely dismissive. Midst the clinic's bustle, Bethany's suggestion seems a somewhat paltry thing. But, even as this thought slips through my mind, my eyes seem to catch at the rather frayed look about the place.

_Certainly he can always say no. _

Bolstered by the thought, I press onward, dismissing any lingering humor with a flick of my fingers.

"You wouldn't take payment before - and I haven't much to give, besides. But we do have a job lined up for tonight with a friend - Bethany and I. We could use a fourth to... watch our backs."

At this, I cannot help but eye him challengingly; startling a surprised blink from him as he finds his earlier words tossed neatly back into his lap.

"All entirely legal and aboveboard. No skulking in sewers..."

There is the glimmer of a smile tracing his mouth as my nose wrinkles.

"No flirting with Templars. Just a nice little jaunt along the coast. And it pays. More than I could hope to offer."

"What's the work, exactly? How much?"

_Hooked. Line and sinker._

I let out the breath I've been holding, flashing a grin, and begin to fill him in on a few quick details.

* * *

"Corff! What's the word on the street?" I motion for a drink with a coquettish grin as I slide onto a stool, nudging Bethany until she plops down beside me.

She echoes my gesture absently, her eyes flickering about the room, alert for an appearance of her 'Knight in Glossy Feathers'.

A dwarf, clean-shaven and flamboyant, is gesticulating wildly in the far corner of the room, surrounded by a small cluster of locals. "Norah! This is Wine! Not Beer!...!"

Tuning out the comfortable, familiar tones of the Hanged Man's atmosphere, I cast a sideways glance at the Bartender, tipping the stool slightly as I balance it on two legs. The foam of a stout surges to the lip of a mug, spilling slightly over as he slides it easily across a bartop worn smooth by years of such use. My fingers form a quick barrier, grasping at the container before the contents can spill across my lap; though I wobble inelegantly as my balance wavers.

Bethy nudges me with an elbow, effectively granting a third point of contact, however brief, and allowing me to stabilize.

"It's the craziest thing, Hawke..." Corff hunkers down on his elbows conspiratorially with a glance to either side as if to fend off unwarranted ears. There is a twinkle in his dark eyes as he turns back to me, a quirk to his lips that illuminates his otherwise craggy features. I take a long appreciative sip of the beer as he continues. "Apparently... the pigeon population has taken a nose dive in Ferelden."

_Choke_. _Snort._

Beer surges, spraying my immediate vicinity as my lungs fight for air, even as a laugh startles free.

He continues, tossing a bar rag my way, nonchalantly. "Weird, huh? That's what I thought. What kind of sick individual preys on those... innocent... things?" His eyes flicker past my shoulder as I brush off the thin film of beer.

_Oh, next time, Corff, next time..._

Another nudge from Bethany, harder this time, as she straightens in her chair; a finger tracing a line behind one ear to tuck a strand of hair away. With an eyeroll towards Corff - who is turning to help another customer - I plant my mug at my elbow and cast a glance over one shoulder to find our fine-feathered-friend approaching in all his bloodily-distinctive glory.

_At least the majority of those here are already three sheets to the wind. Flaming Andraste... whatever happened to keeping a low profile?_

"You made.. I …. Welcome!" Bethany's chirp of mangled greeting says _quite _enough, so mine is merely a casual flick of fingers, turning back to my mug and taking a hearty gulp.

_This is going to be a long night._

Wadding up the bar rag into a neat little ball, it makes a wonderful arc, as I pop it towards Corff's head.

He turns with some hidden sense for impishness, snatching it as the clumped fabric loosens and flutters onto his shoulder, "Oi!" Heaving a long-suffering sigh, the barman turns to eye me as my fingers tap idly on my mug.

My eyes find elsewhere to be, settling on Bethy's bright, rosy-cheeked smile. _Oi indeed..._

"Am I late?" Anders pauses between the two of us, all other seats taken, a polite curiosity lighting his face.

"Shinae just likes to be early." Bethy's blithe response is followed by a briefly awkward silence, my throat momentarily full of another long gulp of the dark, meaty beer.

"Care for a drink?" I toss the question over my shoulder towards the Healer, whose lips part to respond... but still with a sudden shake of the head. His eyes twitch towards the door, narrowing, then flit about the room. I recognize the look as one I've experienced many times.

_The nearest exit is..._

Puzzled, I follow his original glance towards the door to see Aveline stomping her way gracefully through the crowd. And by graceful, I mean the kind of stalking, clanking step which sends the _upstanding _patrons of this establishment instinctively parting around her straight-from-the-barracks, gauntlet-and-armor-bedecked form the way water breaks about the bow of a ship. In short, the way only a guardsman can - quickly and quietly. There is a blankness to her expression, one I recognize as signaling internal thoughts left unflaunted. Though I must admit it gives her a rather ominous aura - particularly if I look at her through Anders unaccustomed eyes.

_Maker. I did mention she was in the guard...?_

"Ah! Aveline!" My hand snakes out towards Anders as I spin around on the stool, fingertips light upon his sleeve as I snag his attention; a little abashed at the tightness compressing his features. I waggle a finger his direction, unable to help the dry tone of my mutter. "Father always said never to cross a healer. While you can put me back together, you likely know all the lovely little ways to take me apart. I rather like all my bits in their places, _thank-you-very-much_." Hoping my grin is reassuring, I slide to my feet; the better to accommodate introductions.

The guardswoman pauses for the ever-ambling Norah, who sweeps idly by with a platter sloshing with spilled drink. Aveline's attention sharpens on us three with abrupt clarity. She smiles.

I sigh._ Must work on that._

"Aveline is like… like a sister." Bethany's sweet, quiet words tones fall into the silence behind me, and it is perhaps the steadfast honesty of her tone that convinces him we haven't played him false. I can almost hear the sudden worry knotting that slip of skin between my sister's eyebrows.

"You say that like it means something." Despite the brief coldness in his tone, he firms his stance; legs spread, arms dangling loosely at his sides. The brief moment of flight or fight seems to have passed.

A brush of Bethy's hand on mine, and I know the same thought is running through her mind as mine.

_To us it does._

"Anders... Aveline." I motion between the two as the latter slides to a brusque halt beside me. "She's as close as family…" I snort a bit at that, reflecting on current relations. "Closer, actually, if you consider Uncles and the price of tea in Orlais."

All three of them level a somewhat blank look my direction at this last, and I wave it off with a grin.

"We watch out for each other..."

"Prove yourself a friend, and I'll extend that courtesy to you." Aveline's tone is level, no nonsense; her shoulders at ease, her expression steady. I can never quite tell if she is merely ignoring the unspoken tensions or if she truly is unaware. It works for her, however, and that matter-of-fact attitude seems to further ease Anders disquiet. "If Hawke's willing to vouch for you, we'll let it stand at that. Shall we go?"

My jaw sags for a split second at such rousing praise - and from _Aveline_ - before I recover; turning and finishing off my ale with one final swig.

_Well, we'll just have to not jeopardize that trust now, won't we?_


	9. Chapter 9

_**A Day in the Life, Part 3  
**__Beta-Read by my fabulous beta: Iavasgil_

The afternoon sun's slow descent leaves a chill in the air; the canopy of the heavens cast wide and open over the coast with only a brief haze along the jagged horizon. It is a desolate place with long, slender swaths of grass and the occasional shrub or bush. Even so, there is something lovely in the clean crisp bite of the air and the distant rumble of surf upon stone and sand.

The track we follow is broad, meant for beasts of burden. Aveline and I take point, our two mages pulling up the rear. I hear snatches of brief conversation, Bethany bubbling and cheerful, despite a consciously moderate tone. Anders is more reserved, the lower pitch of his voice a calmer counterpoint that seems to drain of tension as time passes. While I am tempted to shush them - _it's a mission, not a garden party - _ I feel strangely hesitant to interfere. I am, however, somewhat less hesitant to eavesdrop.

At one point we pause so I can study some fresh markings along the side of the road, and I catch a few clear lines of conversation.

"So you were in the Circle and ran away? I don't know if I'd be brave enough to do that." I wince a little at the overt admiration; it practically oozes from each soft syllable Bethy utters.

I drop to a crouch, one hand tracing the outlines of booted feet. A finger flicks at a few clots of dirt lining the tracks, breaking them open to reveal a darker interior.

_Not dried out, yet; these are definitely recent._

"But... you've been an apostate your whole life - surely you can't discount..." Anders genuine surprise provokes the words that cut off his own.

"But that's it exactly." There is a bittersweet matter-of-factness weighing heavily upon her whispered point. These are not reminiscences of a passing fancy, and I pause in place, ears straining for these thoughts she's never shared with _me_. "It was never anything _I_ had to work for." A brief silence, and then, so quietly murmured I can barely hear it, "Other people always took the risks, so I could be free." _Shame_ rings dismally clear within her soft soprano timbre.

There is a brief pause, and she speaks again into the heavily charged stillness, blithely unaware that I'm listening to every word. "Sometimes I wonder, if it wouldn't be better for everyone, if I did end up there."

My heart clenches at these words, even as a flicker of anger stirs. _All our work to keep you free and you'd give it all up? What would have been the point?_

"At least a half-dozen distinct prints within the last span." My voice seems abrupt in the evening stillness - especially compared to Bethany's earlier murmurs - and all other sounds cease as they glance at me. I, in turn, lift from my crouch in a single smooth motion and squint down the road, covering my sudden inner turmoil with quick, methodical gestures.

_Better for everyone! Really!_

Does it sting that she would have such thoughts? Or is it perhaps that I cannot entirely believe this revelation to a near stranger - no matter how appealing his looks. Suddenly, I ache for the presence of Carver, his prickly temper and brash words. Right or wrong, he'd never cared to keep his opinion to himself. We always knew where we stood.

_And right now, Sinead, you're standing in the middle of the road like an idiot._

Shaking these flashes of thoughts free, like dust from my boots, I continue aloud, "Either the bandits or other travellers likely to get in the way of any encounter." I move onwards with a shrug, nothing else to note; not even entirely sure my observations had even provided us with any useful information.

The road is quiet but Anders' voice emerges after we resume walking; firm with a charged conviction he does not quite manage to dampen, "The Circle is a prison, Bethany. All those within it are at the mercy of Templars; their rules are not for _our _benefit..."

Again, as if growing bolder by voicing these secret thoughts, Bethy interupts him, "My sister hides me away; she's always pushing her decisions on me. How is that any different!" Her words lash me as if with a physical blow, leaving only a chill sort of numbness at my core.

My feet find a divot in the road, as my step falters briefly. _And this, father, is what babying your littlest girl will get you. _Father's stories, to instill in me the importance of protecting Bethany, still set my hair on end. Anders words, spoken so few moments ago, recall these vividly to mind. _"...not for 'our' benefit..."_

Before my thoughts can spiral into distraction, I wrench my mind back to the task at hand. Sliding into an easy jog, I pass Aveline with a quiet call over one shoulder.

"Scouting ahead." Without another word, I continue forward, eyes roving over the lines of the track as it curves along the coastline. A narrow strip of bushy foliage lines the path on my left side, though I know but a few paces further it is nothing but a sharp drop-off. Minutes pass. I settle back into an easy walk, reluctant to move beyond sight of the rest of our little party. A quick survey of the trio reveals the two mages continuing a somewhat animated discussion, curtailed briefly by a quiet bark from Aveline.

_Really? __**Any**__ different?_

"You bet Andraste's blazing _arse_ it is!" The words erupt, a muttered blaze of baffled anger, squelched only by the quick compression of lips and a few moments of furious blinking.

_Damn... is that... dust...?_

Disorientation envelopes me as a fog-like substance swells at my feet. Belatedly, I realize my eyes water not through emotional turmoil, but from an irritant that stings at them, clouding my sight. Instinctively I fling myself to the right, tumbling wrist to shoulder to hip, using my body's natural curve to spin me back up into a defensive crouch. An inarticulate shout spills past my lips, and something whistles through the air behind me, striking the ground with an ominous _thwack_. Eyes and throat burning, my other imperfect senses rise to awareness; hands stretched briefly out to either side hoping to sense the air's movement through my fingertips. A darkening blur swells larger than life beside me, preceded by a brief spit of disturbed air that bears the sour scent of sweat and sea. Again, I fling myself away, though my acrobatic roll falters as a, unexpected brisk wind flares to life, and I splay in a briefly inelegant tangle in the suddenly clearing air.

A bulwark of steel and flashing blade, Aveline surges past me with a cry. Even half-blinded as I still am, I can imagine the sight she must make: teeth bared, eyes gleaming with iron mettle as strong as the sword she wields, a veritable whirlwind of indomitable steel.

"We represent the Viscount's Guard. Lay down your arms and your lives will be spared!" Though Aveline's voice rises over the growing clamor, sizzles and grunts of our encounter, she does not pause; pressing forward and knocking her first opponent to the ground with a heavy sweep of her shield and the tell-tale jangle of clashing steel.

Blearily, I see other vague shapes launching in her general direction.

They do not desist.

_Capture and subdue... if they'll let us._

Cursing at the distraction that lost us an advantage, I pull back from the engagement, briefly overwhelmed by the number and coordination of our opponents. Eyes slipping through slowly redefining shapes, I try to gain my bearings. My fingers curl around knife hilts, drawing them quickly free from their sheathes; the light sweat of my palms begin soaking the wrapped leather grips.

Bethany and Anders stand in Aveline's wake, feet planted and magic flaring in their palms. With a cry, Bethany swirls her staff and smacks the butt into the dust of the road; her control of the elements as sophisticated as her attitudes about life are not. An icy trail snakes along the ground, grasping and clinging at the feet of those surrounding Aveline. My sister's face is pale, but her lips press in a line of concentration.

A few steps beside her, Anders has planted both feet, hands uplifted. Pale magic spills down his wrists before expanding outwards with a _snap_; the outward arc of a pale barrier sending an arrow ricocheting out of sight.

Bethany starts, briefly shaken by the close call, and her icy tendrils falter, melting back from whence they came. Attackers break from cover, charging forward with swords.

_If they get within melee range..._

"Incoming!" Sprinting towards them, I curl a shoulder inward, ramming one bandit into the other and foiling their stride. The intensity of the impact sends an outstretched blade a foot past Anders recoiling frame, rather than through his gut. The spell glittering at his finger-tips fizzles. My relief is short-lived as a numbness surges along my left arm from shoulder to fingertip; one knife flying from my grasp to skitter along the path. Reeling from the impact, my eyes flick upwards, past my adversaries. I see Anders' gaze, dark and assessing, as he snaps into focus. Our eyes meet, something flashing in the depths of that brief connection. I _see _the question taking shape, as clear as if the words were etched in the air between us.

_Yes._ My chin jerks an answer. _I can try. _If I misread his intentions, hopefully he will not misunderstand mine. We do not have the luxury of time.

_Let the dance begin._ As our opponents hesitate, I make the first move; gliding in towards the nearest with a feint that draws up their shields, and fixates their attention. They are greedy for an easy kill, their focus caught. My steps are light, the knife-blade a flashing blur of taunting artistry, as the hilt slides in and out among my fingers. A showman's gift, as arrogant as the smirk I splay across my lips.

Lightly, rhythmically, I shift: deflecting a sudden sword stroke into the path of the bandit's companion. Each lunge, each thrust of their shields pushes me backwards. My taunting grin is the first thing to fade, my parries flying wide, my body forced to writhe sinuously past one deadly arc and thrust after another. Framed between their helmeted heads, Anders hands lift, a web of magic lacing the spaces between his fingers with glowing threads of flame. His lips form a command I cannot hear, but there is no mistaking the urgency upon them.

Backpedalling abruptly, my dance falters as my steps fall out of cadence. A carelessly placed footstep sends me tumbling backwards, catching a knee on the hard road. It is an opening my opponents are swift to snatch, weapons lifting for the final blow...

The air behind them surges, a rippling wave of heat towards which they turn abruptly, swords still lifted. I hit the ground, flattening myself against the cool, dusty earth as tendrils of heat - unblocked by the bandits - snake over my head. A few curls that escaped my helmet sizzle, leaving tiny whorls of singed flesh upon whatever skin they touch. With the cessation of heat, I scramble to find my footing, blade at the ready.

Overlaying the stench of burning flesh and the screams of the men before me, there is a moment of disorientation. For a second, the fetor becomes the heaviness of smoldering darkspawn; the figures before me blackened and twisted in phantom memory. Darting back into the fray, my weapon strikes directly into the narrow opening between a gorget and a helmet, sending blood spurting in a frothy, crimson flow. With a kick, the body slides free as I sweep around, feet finding the familiar cadence of my battle dance. I drive the knife through the chest of the other. The force of the blow sends it through a shattering rib to bury the blade up to the hilt in smoking armor. This second body falls as heavily as the first, this time wrenching my weapon from my grasp.

The vision shimmers, and I'm staring at ordinary human frames, charred and smoking at my feet. It has been nearly two years since Ostagar, but the redolence of burning flesh is still branded in my memory; churning up experiences I would prefer to leave buried in the past.

Swallowing back the bile rising in my throat - Maker knows how long I've been standing here dumbly - awareness of sound and motion returns.

"Yield, damn you!" Aveline's fury is a deep, feminine bellow.

The remnants of a chill burst, freezing in the wake of such recent heat, fly from Bethany's staff; fracturing fragments of ice scattering haphazardly about the space as she seeks to control the remaining bandit dueling with Aveline.

As I turn, Anders catches my eyes, a hand extending with pale light that strings gracefully towards me, renewing sensation to my arm in a cascading wave from shoulder to finger-tip. I have to break from the intensity of that amber gaze, stooping quickly to tug free my dagger. Not until I place a foot beside the blade does it draw free, the dead man's ribs caving beneath the pressure.

Comforted by the familiar weight in my palm, reality continues to solidify around me. The haunts of my past fading as abruptly as they appeared.

Just as quickly, Aveline's opponent stumbles, one foot stuck solid to the road and twisting with an ugly _crack_ of snapping bone and sinew; his shield and sword scatter as he flails.

"Yield! I Yield!" The words emerge in a faint scream; high, piercing, child-like, though the man is grizzled and middle-aged.

After a moment's hesitation, Anders stoops by our captive and, while the ankle is still bent unnaturally, the tension in the man's body eases.

"You cooperate and I'll heal it fully. Otherwise the pain will be the least of your concerns." Anders - the capable courteous healer- has a thread of iron assurance to his tone that leaves a stillness amid the road's carnage.

Aveline's orange head turns slightly towards the apostate.

"Maker, this.. this... isn't worth it!" The man begins babbling, his eyes flickering to the bodies strewn about the road.

The guardswoman's eyes flicker grim and fierce as she stoops over him; her voice level and hard as stone. "Your employer." The fist of Aveline's shield arm embeds itself upon one hip, her eyes sighting down the length of her sword at our captive. "Stalking travelers is no place for an innocent man."

Gaping at her, bleary eyed, the man's jaw works the air and he spits a glob of rusty saliva to one side, clearing his throat.

* * *

Leaving the guardswoman to her interrogation, I drop to a crouch next to the nearest body, sheathing my weapon. Fingers plucking a sword from the dead man's cooling hand, I study the hilt and edge with curious admiration. _Dwarven-wrought. Red steel. Not cheap stuff..._

"I'm no expert," the masculine voice near my ear startles me, "but these seem rather well-equipped for common bandits."

My eyes drop to the corpse itself, suddenly far too aware of his presence leaning beside me as he, too, takes a closer look. The breeze chivvies out the faint scent of herbs that already are so reminiscent of his clinic.

_Bloody Fade, Sinead. This isn't the time. One Hawke going nutty over a man is plenty._

Trying to reorient my thoughts, I focus on the close fit of armor to muscle, the polished glint of worn but expensive steel.

The wind picks up slightly, rustling the brush along the side of the road as the sky dims with approaching dusk. As I glance up, something along the strip of foliage on the harbour side of the track catches my eye. The briefly rising breeze stills, but the bushes do not... I straighten slowly, a caution on my lips.

"It's for the wint...sss..." The last syllable from the captive emerges in a hissing release of air as an arrow blossoms at his throat, feathers quivering as his eyes widen in shock. Gravity pulls his body to the earth with a finality of embrace that can only mean death.

_There._

I sprint forward towards the bushes with a belated cry of warning, swinging a fist downwards and throwing off a second arrow's aim with the weight of the blow. It buries itself into the ground as I fling myself forwards, scrambling for the bow itself; twisting the slender wooden ends sharply to foul my adversary's hands in the bowstring. A shock of dark hair rises above the pale face before me and I release the bow to send a gloved fist into the chunky nose, rocking the assassin back on his heels even as the shock shudders through my forearm.

He stumbles backwards, weight an awkward counterpoint to my own; an elbow catching my helmet at just the right angle to shove it from my head, as my other fist sends him crumpling to the sharply sloping ground at my feet.

Too late, I realize our proximity to the bluff; it is all I can do to extract myself from the tangle of arms and armor before I am swept along with his dead weight.

My opponent slides down the lip as a portion of earth crumbles beneath our feet, sending me wheeling backwards seeking purchase.

A sudden searing pain along the side of my head unbalances me, and I drop to a crouch to center my weight. A blow glances along my forearm, raised defensively as I seek out the blunt object hounding me. The sounds of battle renew nearby as a heavy ironwood bow descends once more. With the bluff so near, and footing so scarce, all I can think is to put as much distance between myself and the dizzying amount of space as possible.

I fling myself closer to the road, tumbling uncomfortably through bramble and branch. The blow meant for my head, lands on my thigh, cushioned by armor and tensing muscle. There is a pause; the soles of my leather boots fight for traction on uneven ground.

Yet the expected blow does not arrive.

Rolling to my feet, my eyes dart frantically, senses tingling with awareness and awaiting some other attack. When it still does not come, I shift my attention to the general sounds of melee, concerned that this second ambush may succeed where the first had not.

As I dart back into the fray, there is a grimness to Aveline's expression as she shakes a body free from her blade; the form falling heavily to the ground. Despite my fears, the fray itself seems to have subsided, though there are hardly more bodies upon the ground than before.

Anders is helping Bethany to her feet, where she wavers shakily before the tell-tale glow of healing stabilizes her. Aveline begins to jog the way of some small, quickly fading clamor, but hesitates as her pace falters. My head throbs at the very thought of a wild goose chase across the coastal wilds. As she slowly glances back at us, I see fury in the set of her lips, even as resignation stills the rest of her features. We are, none of us, immediately suited to pursuit and the hidden places of the Wounded Coast are no place to be poking about as dusk falls. At least, not unless prepared with more back-up than we four could manage.

"Miserable curs!" She forcibly toes a fallen helmet, sending it skittering across the track. "Bollocks!" Apparently her ankle likes this as much as it did her jogging.

"One other got away, but..." Despite my grave tone, I can't help a wry chuckle. "the assassin took the short way down."

"Shinae...?" Apparently stabilized by Anders healing, Bethany is suddenly at my side, face all shades of concern and worry. "Are you...?" The fingers she withdraws from my face are bloodied, but I brush her away with a rueful chuckle, my earlier anger fading. This is the Bethany I know: eyes wide, nibbling a lip with uncertainty now that the moment for maturity has passed, seeking reassurance.

One of my fingers flips up at the tip of her nose, and she wrinkles it at me, irritated and eased by my sisterly '_got ya'._ Behind her I see Anders tending to Aveline's ankle, hands carefully manipulating her booted foot before sending the telltale glitter of magery to encase it.

"No more than I bloody well deserve."

Perhaps working with Aveline is lawful but, glancing about the bodies strewn across the roadway, I can't help but feel that smuggling was much... cleaner.

_They __**did**__ attack first. That's something. _

The aura of healing shrinks around her leg, weaving around the armor before fading beneath the metal as if there is no resistance. There's something about the motions of Anders' hands - the surety of the weight Aveline settles on her foot, good as new - that gives me pause.

_We hear so much of magic's destruction, but so little of its blessings._

"Search the bodies." The guardswoman calls, voice thrown over one shoulder as she hacks and pokes at the nearby foliage for any other surprises.

Reluctantly, Bethany drops to her heels beside one of the bodies, fingers tentative as she pokes into pockets and along clothing, trying everything she can to avoid actually touching flesh.

No longer the focus of sisterly concern, I brush the back of my hand along my forehead, wiping idly at the bit of blood there. The broken skin stings, but the mild discomfort only serves to highlight my earlier rashness. The throbbing, however, seems to intensify with every new movement.

"_You're part of a unit now, Hawke. Whatever you've learned in the past, unlearn it. Your company relies on you to do your part... no more bloody heroics..." _I wince. For a voice from my past, it still bears the sting of resented truth.

As I move towards the next nearest body, trying to ignore the pounding headache, Anders interposes himself in my path, a sardonic twist to his lips as I jerk away from his outstretched hand with a startled glance.

"Don't be difficult now, Hawke. Why bring me along if I'm not to earn my keep?"

"We're not allowed to drag you along just to look pretty? Provide mood lighting as you juggle fireballs?" I cross my arms with both brows lifting, wincing as the motion pulls at the crusting blood. "It's a scratch. Inconvenient. Annoying. Nothing worth wasting...," my voice fades as I look at him, _really_ look at him, expecting the haggardness of hard usage and exhaustion from the way he has been slinging spells both offensively and in healing. But the clear amber gaze he levels at me is bright, his stance no more ragged than it had been before the battle.

Glancing over at Bethany, I note the unfamiliar strain her battle magics have taken on her - like a piece of fine silk that has been torn, left ragged around the edges.

_How...?_ Puzzlement sets my eyebrows arcing in a question but, before my lips can spit out the words, his fingers are firmly grasping my chin; eyes staring briefly at - not _into_ - my own. At this close distance I can see flecks of green in their depths and am reminded of that other moment, staring up into those same eyes. It is bloody disconcerting.

"It's less effort, if you hold still just a moment..." Only belatedly aware that my head has been unconsciously fighting his grip, I settle myself with a slow exhalation.

His free hand brushes back the bloody curls from my forehead, briefly inspecting the wound before the familiar prickling of healing quickly flares along my skin.


	10. Chapter 10

**The Ties That Bind, Part 1  
**_Beta-Read by my fabulous beta: Iavasgil_

"I may not be much of a saint, Sinead," My uncle's eyes, bitter and caustic, meet mine with a startling frankness." But your mother's no flaming Andraste either."

"Oh, really?" Too weary to argue after the long day - and longer evening - and annoyed at the attempted logic of his reasoning, I drop beside the hearth with a quiet groan. Jinks whuffles a little at the pressure as I lean against his solid bulk, but the long sigh ends in a quiet, snuffly snore. As I let the warmth of the fire ease the chill from my bones, it is hard not to worry over Aveline; even as I'm relieved the tongue lashing from her commander did not extend to me.

My fingers close over the little pouch dangling from my belt, reassured by the weight there, and knowing at least one little pickpocket will think twice before attempting _this_Hawke again. Trying to relax, I slip free of all the little encumbrances; the leather vest and greaves, pulling boots off one by one, and sliding my belt off through the loops of my pants. They create a haphazard jumble on the floor, leaving me in sweat-stained tunic and trousers.

Bethany and mother are long asleep. Only Gamlen is awake, milling about restlessly; the air between us uneasy after weeks at odds, but neither of us at ease enough for sleep. Eventually, he settles into a chair at the other corner of the fire, dipping a ladle into the cast iron pot that dangles above the flickering flames before spooning the dark liquid into a mug. Unexpectedly, he thrusts the mug into my unprepared hands, sending a little surge of warm liquid dripping over the rim. Without thinking, I lap it from my fingers; and while the wine's quality is revealed in its sour tang, the spices and warmth are a surprisingly pleasing counterpoint.

"If this is a peace offering I may have to war with you more... often?" Sitting up a little, I cup the mug in chilled hands, feeling the tension of the day slowly easing. It isn't home. I sometimes wonder if anywhere will feel like home again. But at least it's a retreat from most of the world.

"Hmph." Gamlen sprawls back in his chair with a mug of his own and, while his expression isn't entirely welcoming, the toxicity seems to have faded to a mere shade of dislike. We eye each other warily from our respective sides of the hearth. I wonder at the assessing look he tries to hide; catching a glimmer of an expression that reminds me, strangely enough, of Carver. The brief flare of similarity lacks the usual twinge of pain the memory of my brother normally brings, but I push that awareness quickly away, almost guilty at the ease of it.

"Something's eating you, Gamlen. Best spit it out before you get indigestion."

"They've raised the rents." There is an edge to his tone, as if he's expecting a challenge, but I've fought too much today to want to engage in a war of words.

"So it's money, is it. What else? Tab at the local bar? Bad gambling debts?" It's impossible not to laugh, though I can tell the sardonic timbre of it does me no favors. "Maker's breath, uncle..."

"It's no small feat keeping a roof over your lots' heads." The grousing does nothing to allay my suspicions. "That sister of yours..." his voice stalls abruptly as I stiffen, and whatever displeasure he was about to voice is swallowed as he thinks better of it. "I'm just saying, there's a man or two I owe a bit of coin to, and you wouldn't like them digging around here, now would you?"

_Maker, and you'd think the man would have some sense of decency._

"Fine. But if the money goes astray, don't expect me to replace it." Gamlen can't seem to walk five feet from the hovel without shedding coins left and right. Once Bethany had even hexed a few coins before laying them on the table. While no one could ever accuse the old man of having an excess of willpower, he certainly found a way past _that_ compulsion to leave the silvers alone. Just goes to show you that everyone's willing to exert themselves for _something_. Even Gamlen.

Stripping the pouch free of the belt splayed across the floor, I shuffle the coins around with the tip of a finger as I calculate Bethy's and my portions. I'm not about to stiff Anders his due. Counting out a few coins, I stick a handful towards my uncle with only a mild twinge of irritation. "If I hear one more word suggesting Bethy's anything other than safe, _Uncle_, don't think I won't take action of my own."

"Oh stop badgering." Having achieved his purpose, however, my uncle quickly disappears into his closet of a room, leaving me to stare at the fire and ponder. Somehow, a pair of amber eyes drift into my mind's eye, leaving me to chastise myself even as a strange quibbling centers on my gut. A mage for a mage. The two are best suited one to the other. My thoughts are firm as I focus on this. Though I love my father and mother, I don't know that I'd ever want to burden a family with such a life.

Even rationalizing such a decision, however, doesn't seem to dismiss the remembered sensation of the hand brushing the hair from my brow. _Healers fuss over things all the time. It didn't mean anything._However, there is plenty of mulled wine left in the pot; plenty to dull the sharpness of bitter thoughts. And, after a while, those mental ruminations are jumbled into a pleasant haze as the drink takes hold.

* * *

"Bethy, have you seen a leather pouch about..." I measure a distance between two fingers. "Yea big? Had three small buttons fastened with little loops..."

"Why? Is it important?" She's preening into a bit of glass, brushing fingers through haphazard tendrils of black hair.

"While I'm sure Anders will be suitably oblivious to your primping - as most men tend to be," she turns an indignant look my way, but I continue, nonplussed. "I rather doubt he'll think very kindly of us if the promised payment 'disappears'."

My gear is tumbled by the cold hearth beside the empty mug from the night before. I'd nursed a few mugs, finishing off the brewed wine, tottering to bed only after dashing the coals into chilling ashes. I'd carried the pouch with me, hadn't I? Head throbbing with a faint hangover, I can't quite remember.

Not waiting for Bethy's answer, I retrace my path, digging through my gear, eyeing every step of the short path to our room, digging through blankets, even lifting up my mattress. No coins. No pouch. Nothing but dust and lint and an ancient crust of bread that might double for a skiv in the wrong environment. Unwilling to voice my suspicions, I pause in the doorway, palms upon the frame as I look over the room, eyes tracing every visible surface until they pause on Gamlen's door. _There's no other explanation._

"Gamlen still sleeping?"

"Mother and Jinks went to the market, and he was going to accompany them I think. If you hadn't been snoring so loudly..." Affronted, my lips part in denial until I see the teasing grin hovering in her reflection. With a roll of eyes, I turn towards my pile of gear, still crusted with muck, sweat and blood from the day before. Behind me, Bethany giggles, my earlier teasing forgotten now that she's evened the score.

Decisively, I pluck my weapons and belt free, kicking the offensive gear into the corner. Wrapping the belt about my waist, I tug mother's green tunic neatly into place, determined to stay out of trouble, for once. Perhaps it is the armor that invites it?

Fetching a large napsack, I fill it with the looted gear from yesterday's fight, hoping some of it will fetch a fair price.

"Bethy, if I'm not back by the time Anders stops by, tell him I'll have the money tonight, at the Hanged Man." Before she can respond, I've slung the bag over one shoulder and push my way out the door.

Stepping briskly out onto the city streets, I trot down the steps from Gamlen's little home and into the overpowering scents of fish and seaweed. The sun slants through the ragged skyline of hovels and city walls, each shaft lighting the air with incandescence as I and the other passerbys stir up dust with our steps.

The glare against the buildings, against dust motes, and shining from the occasional helmet of a meandering guard gives my eyes fits. _Next time_, unable to stifle the sulky thought, _must remember to only drink when not responsible for anyone else. _I snort to myself. _When pigs fly, maybe._

The market itself is bustling, and I try to slow my steps to a more acceptable pace, not wanting to attract the wrong kind of attention. I pause by the weaponry booth, eliciting a broad grin from the merchant as he rubs his broad hands together, voice gruff but friendly.

"Something to tempt you today, Hawke?" With a regretful smile, I shake my head, fingering a hilt or two as I pause just long enough to dump yesterday's take onto the board.

"Actually, I thought it might be the other way around, Coll." Across the way, I spy Elegant's airy wave and sigh, knowing that it is unlikely I'll slip through the market without my various acquaintances pumping me for new gossip.

When I do finally catch up to mother, she's wandering the hightown market; a few packages beneath her arms, Jinks a half step behind her, watchful. The difference between low and high here are distinct, the display of wealth more apparent, the eyes less watchful of their pouches of coins than the common slums are of their pennies. Sliding my fingers to ruffle the Mabari's ears I slip alongside to drop a quick kiss to mother's cheek.

"Morning, mother." There is a gleam in her eyes as she fingers the hem of my tunic, then pats my cheek approvingly. Having practically lived in my armor since Lothering, it's a rare day that sees me as anything besides a walking armory. I can see the back-handed compliment forming in her eyes, the rote observation that '_See? There is a pretty woman in there, after all'_. To spare us both, I continue quickly, "You seen Gamlen this morning?" Her face splits into a broad smile, immediately diverted.

"I can hardly believe, it, Sinead! I think he may have realized the error of his ways... treating me to these!" Hoisting her armful for my perusal, her smile falters ever so briefly at my blank expression. Stringing together a series of expressions that resemble nonchalance, I feel like I'm baring teeth more than displaying pleasure. _Maker, and that's expensive... _Knowing if I say anything critical, I will say too much, I manage a forced laugh.

"Wonderful! Just... no lilies this time, please? No one takes a flowery warrior seriously these days." The brittle chuckle fools her, and though mother's money sense leaves much to be desired, I can't quite find it in myself to crush the pleasure on her face. She'll learn soon enough. _Oh just wait until I get my hands on you, Gamlen..._ Aloud, I continue, "Where's the man of the hour? I can't _wait _to hear all about this new leaf he's turned..."

"I assume whatever job granted him the means for this bounty... Though he may have been stopping at the Hanged Man first...". A

* * *

If father had ever caught me three city streets within range of a local brothel, I'm sure he'd have tanned my hide into the Korcari Wilds. Not that I really understood the concept until I joined the Fereldan regulars - and _those_ forget-able episodes had only reinforced my father's instruction. As a young girl, I'd contemplated the whole 'arrangement' between men and women after mother's brief explanation of the simple facts of life. '_You... what...? Where? Why?'_

While the concept itself has grown somewhat more palatable...

"_Nothing is so desperate for you to ever contemplate selling yourself in that way, Red."_

I'd been so embarrassed the subject had to be addressed at all - and by father, of all people! There had been an intensity to his words that had left Bethany, Carver and I to squirm. "_You ever take advantage of someone, and think paying them makes it right, you're no child of mine. You ever call your sister that kind of name again and I'll..." _

Being all of thirteen, though a worldly thirteen, it was my first introduction to the dangers of using naughty words in foreign tongues. While I've insulted many people since, I've always taken care to know exactly what it is I'm calling them.

To think that Gamlen, a purveyor of such establishments, had the gall to look down his nose at my father was enough to provoke a surge of righteous anger.

The cloying scents emanating from the Blooming Rose do not entirely hide the unpleasant odors lingering along the street. As I pass an alleyway, a discolored streak upon the stone is a recent sign of a staple drunken pass-time. _Dogs._Steeling myself, I cover the last remaining steps and push through the front door, finding a dim but lush entryway that quickly empties me into the main chamber.

Vibrant fabrics soften the interior, and the flickering lights cast the room in a pleasant glow of candlelight that must be a kindness to both the paid companions and their clients. Alcoves form in the corners, and a few tables are populated with men and women of the trade.

A woman greets me, shrewd eyes sliding up and down every inch of my frame. I can tell she is counting each and every hint of my low station, from the splitting seam on my abused boots to the patch on my knee, even to the rough weave of my belt. I can tell the exact moment that total exceeds some inner minimum.

"We're not a charity, Fereldan. But... for fifty silver you _might _get someone to... _touch_... you for a while..." The haughty contempt is unexpected. I am, after all, an honest woman. Relatively speaking.

"Don't bother." My interruption results in her narrowing eyes, her round lips compressing briefly and etching lines about her mouth. "I'm looking for someone, just point me the right direction and I'll not darken your doors again." The quirk of her eyebrow is a non-committal invitation, so I continue, my eyes flickering along the edges of the room for my prey. "Gamlen Amell?"

"No... can't say that I..." Knowing my Uncle's sparkling personality, I push at the opening her hesitation leaves, arcing fingertips towards my palm and buffing the jagged nails against my jacket with all the friendly nonchalance I can muster.

"Shall we play a little game? I bet that before you could convince those lovely fellows protecting that door to set me outside, I could make the rounds and chat up all these lovely people..." my hand flicks to encompass the various dim corners of the room. What personages might be partially concealed in those shadows would not long maintain anonymity once my gaze pierced those dim alcoves. "but he's a hawkish figure, about..." I gesture a little taller than myself. "yea tall, thinning gray hair, long, but usually pulled back... and a personality that sours good wine?"

The abrupt glint of humor at that last, and I know my cajoling is a success. The anonymity of her better-paying customers apparently trumps the down-trodden former Amell Scion.

My uncle perches on a stool, right where she said he'd be, waiting with one hand tapping on the bar, and the other draining the contents of his mug into his gullet. As I watch his adam's apple bob with each gulp, a little sense of mischievousness colors my intent.

Thinking to have a little fun, I slip around behind him, dropping my voice into a smoother, sultry tone as I lean in close to whisper in his ear.

"Ser Amell...?"

As I tap him on the shoulder, his free hand stretches out towards my posterior only to find the dangling sheath of my knife playing interference. His bleary-eyed gaze narrows at me in startled confusion. I've never seen a man snatch his fingers away faster, and I grin at him with wicked amusement as he splutters. _Serves you right. That better have scarred you for life.._.

"I won't tell Leandra I saw you, if... if... you don't..." His words bring me abruptly back to the purpose of this visit, and my mood darkens.

"Stuff it, you dirty old man, or I'll do it for you." My hiss gathers a little attention. The customers immediately next to us suddenly evaporate into dimmer corners, leaving a little space around us. "I have _words_ for _you_. Outside. Now."

His alcohol-reddened eyes meet mine, a dozen indignant words rising to his lips before falling, unspoken. I see each excuse rising to the fore with a flicker in his eyes, then dismissed with every resentful glance to my face. Finally, his shoulders slump, the insolent curl to his lip resentful even as he capitulates, sliding free of his stool.

_If that's his gambling face, no wonder he racks up so many debts._

As I wait for him to precede me, something at the other end of the bar catches my eye, and I turn slightly in time to see a familiar, feathered frame stooping slightly to listen to the Brothel's mistress. Anders straightens as she grasps his arm authoritatively. However, despite being dragged towards a nearby doorway, his eyes drift about the room to, of course, land on me. _And the day just gets more delightful._

We share a mutually startled glance before he disappears behind the door, and I take the opportunity to grab the back of Gamlen's collar and _haul._With a glare, he shrugs free from my grip.

"Knew I'd seen that suitor of Bethany's somewhere before. He hangs around here... didn't you..." his mutter is unexpectedly started and just as unexpectedly cut off, as my darkened glare stills his babbling tongue.

While the healer is still a man, I hadn't expected someone of his... he just hadn't seemed the type... My mind wrestles with the observation, trying to make sense of the little of the honorable man I'd seen, and the figure passing into the depths of the brothel.

_It's a place for desperate people, Sinead._ Thoughts rampaging wildly, I can think of only one other purpose a man of his looks might be doing in a _whorehouse_. My gut sinks, my assumptions dissolving into a mess of pity and disappointment.

_The man has nothing. He's... he must be... desperate to... be working there. There's certainly no way he could be paying if he 'hangs around' as Gamlen says..._

Once outside the Rose, however, the sweep of chill afternoon air sends a semblance of order to my scattered wits. Rounding on Gamlen, I send a finger darting towards his chest. _First things first._

"So your plan was, what? Exactly? Are you so wine-addled you thought I _wouldn't notice_? Or that I'd believe the half-assed story you told mother?" The belligerence on his face only deepens as he crosses his arms; I note - with some satisfaction - a few beads of sweat along his brow. "The money. _Now._" Despite his scowl, he yanks a thin pouch from his belt and flings it at me. The fabric crumples in my fingers as I catch it, but there are, at least, a few coins still scraping each other within. Their hard edges form an unsatisfying cluster in my fist.

"... invaded by women ... paying for a roof I don't …." He stills, as I level another look his direction; angry as I realize that not only is the bulk of the money gone, but there is not even enough to pay Anders his portion. Having seen what the healer was desperate enough to drive himself towards, the thought that I would fall short of a promised payment leaves me positively nauseous.

Gamlen is edging back towards the Blooming Rose, and it occurs to me that perhaps not all the funds are unrecoverable.

"This money was meant to pay someone else. Now. Go in, get reimbursed the bloody sovereign you put down for your ... pleasure ..." the very thought sends a shudder down my spine. "And if you make me come in after you ... I promise you, you'll find sleeping under _no roof_preferable to sleeping under the same roof as 'us women'."

* * *

"Looks like someone needs a drink!" The voice sounds familiar, and yet … at the same time, not.

Looking up the from the flames licking the smoke-stained stones of the Hanged Man's common room hearth, it takes a moment for the glittering after-images of the flames to fade, "Hmm?"

The thick, angular features of a dwarf waver into view; eyes sharply blue beneath a jovial tilt of bushy eyebrows. "Pint for your thoughts, Hawke?" Varric's tones are of the cultivated wheedler, though it wouldn't have taken much convincing to drag me away from my mind's tangle. "Find what you were looking for?" As he gestures for Norah, I slip into the seat across from him with a coquettish grin.

"The tip was golden. Tracked down my man with hours to spare, though not much of a story to it." I sigh, stretching languidly until my neck crackles with the release of tight joints. "You seem to have an understanding of Kirkwall... Don't suppose that long ear of yours has heard any interesting tidbits involving recent ambushes along the coast?"

This exchange lasted through the first round of ale - paid for, generously, by Varric - and through the second - purchased by my own dwindling coin. For the first time since arriving in Kirkwall, however, I wasn't worrying about the Templars, about Bethany...

_I've missed this_. The thought floats hazily to the top of my mind from where its been lingering at the edges of our conversation. I realize that I haven't simply shot the breeze with anyone like this since before Ostagar... the brief recollection must have darkened my expression suddenly, as Varric shakes a finger at me, widening those bright and shrewd eyes of his oh so innocently.

"No shit, Hawke, there I was...!" He slaps the table with a heavy palm that punctuates his bark of a laugh.

"You'd have me believe that this friend of yours really..." Shaking free of those persistent tendrils of memory, I focus on the present - the frothy headed ale in my mug and the intense expression of a true story-teller in the seat across from mine. The Dwarf's exuberance is hard to resist, and I find amusement plucking at my own lips.

By the third round, however, his sly wit is whippin mine into rare form, and I find myself launching into amusing vignettes from my early days in the Fereldan army. Well, _he _seems amused, at least...

"...So there stands Abe, in nothing but his birth-day best and a carefully positioned bucket, when the Commander - a woman mind you - rounds the corner of the tent..." I take a swallow of my ale, grinning amiably into the nutty brew before continuing.

"So the Commander takes in the scene with a single look, and states - with a straight face I will always envy - 'Private, I believe it's appropriate to salute when...' ..."

"You want something Blondie?" Varric's sudden interruption breaks the momentum of my punch-line, and I sigh ruefully. Aware of a presence behind me, I swivel on the chair to see who my companion has greeted. There is something inscrutable about Anders expression, those unmistakable pauldrons virtually bristling upon his shoulders, and I wonder how long he has been listening.

"Oh, Anders!" Flustered, I stand abruptly, briefly light-headed as the alcohol laden parts of me seem unwilling to relinquish my seat. "If you'll excuse me a moment, Varric..." Putting actions to my words, I step along through the crowd, looking for a quiet space to pay him without marking him to thieves. The hanged man is crowded, tight clusters of people knotted in groups. Weaving among them, I do not find a respite from the clamor, instead hearing the clash of a dozen varying conversations.

"That storm a few days ago..."

"Norah! Where's my...!"

"...Horned savages..."

"...But darling, it was only a _little_kiss... you're the only..." This last from a young man, as he pushes past me to pursue the retreating blue skirts of a... lady-friend? Wife? Shaking my head in bemusement, I pause, realizing that the press is only worsening.

"Qunari bastards" seems to be a theme echoing from more than one quarter. _Must find out what all the fuss is about ... but later._

Casting my eyes over my shoulder, Anders halts silently in my wake, the flow of the taproom's patrons shoving us uncomfortably into each other's space. Normally it might not bother me, but I don't care to examine my reaction too closely at the moment.

"Outside?" My voice lifts to carry over the noise and he nods in acquiescence.

We step outside, and the commotion of the tavern fades to a dull roar as the heavy door falls closed behind us. It is that curious moment in time, the dim mysteriousness of twilight where the sun has just set and the moon not yet arisen. Moving several paces beyond the Hanged Man's entrance, I lean back against the wall as I fumble at the pouch upon my belt. The buttons seem clumsy in my fingers, but once freed, I hand the entirety to him.

"Thanks, Hawke." Avoiding my gaze for a moment, he briefly eyes the coins, then frowns a little; his eyebrows needle as a finger stirs the faintly jingling metals. Knowing a sovereign might be hard to make use of for someone in his position, I've filled it with the lesser equivalents. "This is... more than I expected." There is a level, leaden quality to his tone that makes it hard for me to gauge his reaction.

"Well, I …," my tongue fumbles, unexpectedly, for the consonants. "A little extra - for the clinic. To help, you know." While we already stand a little apart, there suddenly seems a vast gulf between us. I'm reminded that those brief moments of friendship enjoyed by his fire are greatly surpassed by the other unknown moments of our lives.

"Not that I don't appreciate it, but throwing all your money away on..." He falls silent, but it's hard to read an expression when I'm trying my damnedest to avoid eye contact. Instead, I find myself staring past his face, at a tiny scar marking the center of an earlobe. _Old earring?_

"Well, lets just say I'm fond of my head, my gut, and keeping me in working condition is appreciated." Hesitating briefly in my address towards Anders distant ear, I press on, crossing my arms neatly across my chest, uncertain if the touch of humor will be well-received. "There's likely more jobs where that came from, if you're interested."

"Not unlikely." There is a pregnant pause after this tight-lipped response, and I feel a sense of mortification for him, knowing that we must both be reflecting on our brief glimpse of one another earlier this afternoon. And, as always, I should have stopped while I was ahead; but the words come tumbling out anyhow.

"If so, hopefully you can spend more time where you're needed and not..." something in his stance changes, his shoulders stiffening even as I catch an unexpected expression of cold revulsion shifting across his face. Startled by it, I'm surprised into meeting his eyes, and as I begin to read the affront written there, I feel my moral high ground sinking into a quagmire of uncertainty.

* * *

_A/N: Due to school, work and various other commitments - posts will be sporadic, but they will still come! Reviews help motivate me, and feedback helps me improve. ;) *Hint, hint* *Nudge, nudge* I have to give a huge thanks to Iavasgil for her pertinent pointers and suggestions that dispel by writer's block. :) Merry Christmas all!_


End file.
